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THE 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS/ 

OF  THE 

EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY. 


BY 

WM.  M.  THACKERAY.  * 


BOSTON  COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

CHESTNUT  HILL,  MASS. 


BOSTON : 

WILLARD  SMALL, 

24  Franklin  Street. 


1890. 


6574 


BOSTON  COLLEGE  LIBRaUV 
CHESTNUT  HILL  Mass 


Alfred  Mudge  & Son,  Printers, 
24  Franklin  Street, 
Boston. 


127471 


THE  ENGLISH  HUMORISTS 


OF  THE 

EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY. 


SWIFT. 

In  treating  of  the  English  humorists  of  the 
past  age,  it  is  of  the  men  and  of  their  lives, 
rather  than  of  their  books,  that  I ask  permis- 
sion to  speak  to  you  ; and  in  doing  so,  you 
are  aware  that  I cannot  hope  to  entertain  you 
with  a merely  humorous  or  facetious  story. 
Harlequin  without  his  mask  is  known  to  pre- 
sent a very  sober  countenance,  and  was  him- 
self, the  story  goes,  the  melancholy  patient 
whom  the  doctor  advised  to  go  and  see  Harle- 
quin* — a man  full  of  cares  and  perplexities 
like  the  rest  of  us,  whose  Self  must  always 
be  serious  to  him,  under  whatever  mask  or 
disguise  or  uniform  he  presents  it  to  the  pub- 
lic. And  as  all  of  you  here  must  needs  be 
grave  when  you  think  of  your  own  past  and 
present,  you  will  not  look  to  find,  in  the  histo- 
ries of  those  whose  lives  and  feelings  I am 
going  to  try  and  describe  to  you,  a story  that 
is  otherwise  than  serious,  and  often  very  sad. 


* The  anecdote  is  frequently  told  of  our  performer  Rich. 


4 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


If  Humor  only  meant  laughter,  you  would 
scarcely  feel  more  interest  about  humorous 
writers  than  about  the  private  life  of  poor 
Harlequin  just  mentioned,  who  possesses  in 
common  with  these  the  power  of  making  you 
laugh.  But  the  men  regarding  whose  lives 
and  stories  your  kind  presence  here  shows  that 
you  have  curiosity  and  sympathy,  appeal  to  a 
great  number  of  our  other  faculties,  besides 
our  mere  sense  of  ridicule.  The  humorous 
writer  professes  to  awaken  and  direct  your 
love,  your  pity,  your  kindness,  — your  scorn 
for  untruth,  pretension,  imposture,  — your  ten- 
derness for  the  weak,  the  poor,  the  oppressed, 
the  unhappy.  To  the  best  of  his  means  and 
ability  he  comments  on  all  the  ordinary  ac- 
tions and  passions  of  life  almost.  He  takes 
upon  himself  to  be  the  week-day  preacher, 
so  to  speak.  Accordingly,  as  he  finds,  and 
speaks,  and  feels  the  truth  best,  we  regard 
him,  esteem  him  — sometimes  love  him.  And, 
as  his  business  is  to  mark  other  people’s  lives 
and  peculiarities,  we  moralize  upon  his  life 
when  he  is  gone ; and  yesterday’s  preacher 
becomes  the  text  for  to-day’s  sermon. 

Of  English  parents,  and  of  a good  English 
family  of  clergymen,*  Swift  was  born  in 


*He  was  from  a younger  branch  of  the  Swifts  of  Yorkshire. 
His  grandfather,  the  Rev.  Thomas  Swift,  vicar  of  Goodrich,  in 
Herefordshire,  suffered  for  his  loyalty  in  Charles  I. ’s  time.  That 
gentleman  married  Elizabeth  Dryden,  a member  of  the  family 
of  the  poet.  Sir  Walter  Scott  gives,  with  his  characteristic 
minuteness  in  such  points,  the  exact  relationship  between  these 
famous  men.  Swift  was  the  “ son  of  Dryden’s  second  cousin.” 
Swift,  too,  was  the  enemy  of  Dryden’s  reputation.  Witness  the 
“Battle  of  the  Books”:  “The  difference  was  greatest  among 


SWIFT. 


5 


Dublin  in  1667,  seven  months  after  the  death 
of  his  father,  who  had  come  to  practise  there 
as  a lawyer.  The  boy  went  to  school  at  Kil- 
kenny, and  afterwards  to  Trinity  College, 
Dublin,  where  he  got  a degree  with  difficulty, 
and  was  wild,  and  witty,  and  poor.  In  1688, 
by  the  recommendation  of  his  mother,  Swift 
was  received  into  the  family  of  Sir  William 
Temple,  who  had  known  Mrs.  Swift  in  Ireland. 
He  left  his  patron  in  1694,  and  the  next  year 
took  orders  in  Dublin.  But  he  threw  up  the 
small  Irish  preferment  which  he  got  and  re- 
turned to  Temple,  in  whose  family  he  remained 
until  Sir  William’s  death  in  1699.  His  hopes 
of  advancement  in  England  failing,  Swift 
returned  to  Ireland,  and  took  the  living  of 
Laracor.  Hither  he  invited  Hester  Johnson,* * 
Temple’s  natural  daughter,  with  whom  he  had 
contracted  a tender  friend -hip,  while  they 
were  both  dependants  of  Temple’s.  And  with 
an  occasional  visit  to  England,  Swift  now 
passed  nine  years  at  home. 

In  1709  he  came  to  England,  and,  with  a 


the  horse,”  says  he  of  the  moderns,  ‘‘where  every  private 
trooper  pretended  to  the  command,  from  Tasso  and  Milton  to 
Dryden  and  Withers.”  And  in  “ Poetry,  a Rhapsody,”  he  ad- 
vises the  poetaster  to  — 

“Read  all  the  Prefaces  of  Dryden, 

For  these  our  critics  much  confide  in, 

Though  merely  writ,  at  first  for  filling, 

To  raise  the  volume’s  price  a shilling.” 

“ Cousin  Swift,  you  will  never  be  a poet,”  was  the  phrase  of 
Dryden  to  his  kinsman,  which  remained  alive  in  a memory 
tenacious  of  such  matters. 

* “ Miss  Hetty  ” she  was  called  in  the  family",  where  her 
face  and  her  dress,  and  Sir  William’s  treatment  of  her,  all  made 
the  real  fact  about  her  birth  plain  enough.  Sir  William  left 
her  a thousand  pounds. 


6 ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 

brief  visit  to  Ireland,  during  which  he  took 
possession  of  his  deanery  of  St.  Patrick,  he 
now  passed  five  years  in  England,  taking  the 
most  distinguished  part  in  the  political  trans- 
actions which  terminated  with  the  death  of 
Queen  Anne.  After  her  death,  his  party  dis- 
graced, and  his  hopes  of  ambition  over,  Swift 
returned  to  Dublin,  where  he  remained  twelve 
years.  In  this  time  he  wrote  the  famous 
“Drapier’s  Letters”  and  “ Gulliver’s  Travels.” 
He  married  Hester  Johnson,  Stella,  and  buried 
Esther  Vanhomrigh,  Vanessa,  who  had  fol- 
lowed him  to  Ireland  from  London,  where 
she  had  contracted  a violent  passion  for  him. 
In  1726  and  1727  Swift  was  in  England,  which 
he  quitted  for  the  last  time  on  hearing  of  his 
wife’s  illness.  Stella  died  in  January,  1728, 
and  Swift  not  until  1745,  having  passed  the 
last  five  of  the  seventy-eight  years  of  his  life 
with  an  impaired  intellect  and  keepers  to  watch 
him.* 

You  know,  of  course,  that  Swift  has  had 
many  biographers ; his  life  has  been  told  by 


* Sometimes,  during  his  mental  affliction,  he  continued  walk- 
ing about  the  house  for  many  consecutive  hours;  sometimes  he 
remained  in  a kind  of  torpor.  At  times  he  would  seem  to 
struggle  to  bring  into  distinct  consciousness,  and  shape  into 
expression,  the  intellect  that  lay  smothering  under  gloomy 
obstruction  in  him.  A pier-glass  falling  by  accident,  nearly 
fell  on  him.  He  said  he  wished  it  had.  He  once  repeated 
slowly  several  times,  “ I am  what  I am.”  The  last  thing  he 
wrote  was  an  epigram  on  the  building  of  a magazine  for  arms 
and  stores,  which  was  pointed  out  to  him  as  he  went  abroad 
during  his  mental  disease  : — 

“ Behold  a proof  of  Irish  sense  : 

Here  Irish  wit  is  seen  : 

When  nothing ’s  left  that ’s  worth  defence, 

They  build  a magazine ! ” 


SWIFT. 


7 


the  kindest  and  most  good-natured  of  men, 
Scott,  who  admires  but  can’t  bring  himself  to 
love  him;  and  by  stout  old  Johnson,*  who, 
forced  to  admit  him  into  the  company  of  poets, 
receives  the  famous  Irishman,  and  takes  off 
his  hat  to  him  with  a bow  of  surly  recognition, 
scans  him  from  head  to  foot,  and  passes  over 
to  the  other  side  of  the  street.  Doctor  Wilde 
of  Dublin,!  who  has  written  a most  interest- 
ing volume  on  the  closing  yea1  s of  Swift’s  life, 
calls  Johnson  u the  most  malignant  of  his 
biographers  ” : it  is  not  easy  for  an  English 
critic  to  please  Irishmen  — perhaps  to  try  and 


* Besides  these  famous  books  of  Scott’s  and  Johnson’s  there 
is  a copious  “Life”  by  Thomas  Sheridan  (Doctor  Johnson’s 
“Sherry”),  father  of  Richard  Brinsley,  and  son  of  that  good- 
natured,  clever  Irish  Doctor  Thomas  Sheridan,  Swift’s  inti- 
mate, who  lost  his  chaplaincy  by  so  unluckily  choosing  for  a 
text  on  the  King’s  birthday,  “ Sufficient  for  the  day  is  the  evil 
thereof.”  Not  to  mention  less  important  works,  there  is  also 
the  “Remarks  on  the  Life  and  Writings  of  Doctor  Jonathan 
Swift,”  by  that  polite  and  dignified  writer,  the  Earl  of  Orrery. 
His  lordship  is  said  to  have  striven  for  literary  renown,  chiefly 
that  he  might  make  up  for  the  slight  passed  on  him  by  his 
father,  who  left  his  library  away  from  him.  It  is  to  be  feared 
that  the  ink  he  used  to  wash  out  that  stain  only  made  it  look 
bigger.  He  had,  however,  known  Swift,  and  corresponded  with 
people  who  knew  him.  His  work  (which appeared  in  1751)  pro- 
voked a good  deal  of  controversy,  calling  out,  among  other 
brochures , the  interesting  “Observations  on  Lord  Orrery’s 
Remarks,”  etc.,  of  Doctor  Delany. 

t Doctor  Wilde’s  book  was  written  on  the  occasion  of  the 
remains  of  Swift  and  Stella  being  brought  to  the  light  of  day,  — 
a thing  which  happened  in  1835,  when  certain  works  going  on 
in  St.  Patrick’s  Cathedral,  Dublin,  afforded  an  opportunity  of 
their  being  examined.  One  hears  with  surprise  of  these  skulls 
“ going  the  rounds  ” of  houses,  and  being  made  the  objects  of  dil- 
ettante curiosity.  The  larynx  of  Swift  was  actually  carried  off! 
Phrenologists  had  a low  opinion  of  his  intellect  from  the  observa- 
tions they  took. 

Doctor  Wilde  traces  the  symptoms  of  ill  health  in  Swift, 
as  detailed  in  his  writings  from  time  to  time.  He  observes, 
likewise,  that  the  skull  gave  evidence  of  “diseased  action  ” of 
the  brain  during  life,  such  as  would  be  produced  by  an  in« 
qreasing  tendency  to  “ cerebral  congestion.” 


8 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


please  them.  And  yet  Johnson  truly  admires 
Swift : Johnson  does  not  quarrel  with  Swift’s 
change  of  politics,  or  doubt  his  sincerity  of 
religion  : about  the  famous  Stella  and  Yanessa 
controversy  the  Doctor  does  not  bear  very 
hardly  on  Swift.  But  he  could  not  give  the 
Dean  that  honest  hand  of  his  ; the  stout  old 
man  puts  it  into  his  bre.ist,  and  moves  off 
from  him.* 

Would  we  have  liked  to  live  with  him? 
That  is  a question  which,  in  dealing  with  these 
people’s  works,  and  thinking  of  their  lives  and 
peculiarities,  every  reader  of  biographies  must 
put  to  himself.  Would  you  have  liked  to  be  a 
friend  of  the  great  Dean?  I should  like  to 
have  been  Shakespeare’s  shoeblack  — just  to 
have  lived  in  his  house,  just  to  have  wor- 
shipped him  — to  have  run  on  his  errands, 
and  seen  that  sweet  serene  face.  I should 
like,  as  a young  man,  to  have  lived  on  Field- 
ing’s staircase  in  the  Temple,  and  after  help- 
ing him  up  to  bed  perhaps,  and  opening  his 
door  with  his  latch-key,  to  have  shaken  hands 
with  him  in  the  morning,  and  heard  him  talk' 
and  crack  jokes  over  his  breakfast  and  his 
mug  of  small  beer.  Who  would  not  give 
something  to  pass  a night  at  the  club  with 
Johnson,  and  Goldsmith,  and  James  Boswell, 
Esq.,  of  Auchinleck?  The  charm  of  Addi- 
son’s companionship  and  conversation  has 


* “ He  [Doctor  Johnson]  seemed  to  me  to  have  an  unaccounta- 
ble prejudice  against  Swift;  for  I once  took  the  liberty  to  ask 
him  if  Swift  had  personally  offended  him,  and  he  told  me  he 
had  not.”  — Boswell’s  Tour  to  the  Hebrides . 


SWIFT . 


9 


passed  to  us  by  fond  tradition — but  Swift? 
If  you  had  been  his  inferior  in  parts  (and 
that,  with  a great  respect  for  all  persons 
present,  I fear  is  only  very  likely),  his 
equal  in  mere  social  stations,  he  would  have 
bullied,  scorned,  and  insulted  you ; if,  un- 
deterred by  his  great  reputation,  you  had  met 
him  like  a man,  he  would  have  quailed  before 
you,*  and  not  had  the  pluck  to  reply,  and 
gone  home,  and  years  after  written  a foul 
epigram  about  you  — watched  for  you  in  a 
sjwer,  and  come  out  to  assail  you  with  a 
coward’s  blow  and  a dirty  bludgeon.  If  you 
had  been  a lord  with  a blue  riband,  who 
flattered  his  vanity,  or  could  help  his  ambi- 
tion, he  would  have  been  the  most  delightful 
company  in  the  world.  He  would  have  been 
so  manly,  so  sarcastic,  so  bright,  odd,  and 


*Few  men,  to  be  sure,  dared  this  experiment,  but  yet  their 
success  was  encouraging.  One  gentleman  made  a point  of 
asking  the  Dean  whether  his  uncle  Godwin  had  not  given  him 
his  education.  Swift,  who  hated  that  subject  cordially,  and 
indeed,  cared  little  for  his  kindred,  said  sternly,  “ Yes;  he  gave 
me  the  education  of  a dog.”  “ Then,  sir  ” cried  the  other,  strik- 
ing his  list  on  the  table,  “ you  have  not  the  gratitude  of  a dog!  ” 
Other  occasions  there  were  when  a bold  face  gave  the  Dean 
pause,  even  after  his  Irish  almost-royal  position  was  estab- 
lished. But  he  brought  himself  into  greater  danger  on  a cer- 
tain occasion,  and  the  amusing  circumstances  may  be  once  more 
repeated  here.  He  had  unsparingly  lashed  the  notable  Dublin 
lawyer,  Mr.  Serjeant  Bettesworth  — 

“ Thus  at  the  bar,  the  booby  Bettesworth, 

Though  half-a-crown  o’er-pays  his  sweat’s  worth, 

Who  knows  in  law  nor  text  nor  margent, 

Calls  Singleton  his  brother-serjeant ! ” 

The  Serjeant,  it  is  said,  swore  to  have  his  life.  He  presented 
himself  at  the  deanery.  The  Dean  asked  his  name.  “ Sir,  I am 
Serjeant  Bett-es-worth.” 

“ In  what  regiment , pray  ? ” asked  Swift. 

A guard  of  volunteers  formed  themselves  to  defend  the  Dean 
at  this  time. 


10 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


original,  that  you  might  think  he  had  no  ob- 
ject in  view  but  the  indulgence  of  his  humor, 
and  that  he  was  the  most  reckless,  simple 
creature  in  the  world.  How  he  would  have 
torn  your  enemies  to  pieces  for  you ! and 
made  fun  of  the  Opposition ! His  servility 
was  so  boisterous  that  it  looked  like  indepen- 
dence : * he  would  have  done  your  errands, 
but  with  the  air  of  patronizing  you,  and  after 
fighting  your  battles,  masked,  in  the  street  or 
the  press,  would  have  kept  on  his  hat  before 
your  wife  and  daughters  in  the  drawing-room, 
content  to  take  that  sort  of  pay  for  his  tre- 
mendous services  as  a bravo,  j* 


*“But,  my  Hamilton,  I will  never  hide  the  freedom  of  my 
sentiments  from  you.  I am  much  inclined  to  believe  that  the 
temper  of  my  friend  Swift  might  occasion  his  English  friends  to 
wish  him  happily  and  properly  promoted  at  a distance.  His 
spirit,  for  I would  give  it  the  softest  name,  was  ever  untractable. 
The  moiions  of  his  genius  were  often  irregular.  He  assumed 
more  the  air  of  a patron  than  of  a friend.  He  affected  rather  to 
dictate  than  advise.”  — Orrery. 

t “ . . . An  anecdote,  which,  though  only  told  by  Mrs.  Pil- 
kington,  is  well  attested,  bears,  that  the  last  time  he  was  in 
London  he  went  to  dine  with  the  Earl  of  Burlington,  who  was 
but  newly  married.  The  Earl,  it  is  supposed,  being  willing  to 
have  a little  diversion,  did  not  introduce  him  to  his  lady  nor 
mention  his  name.  After  dinner  said  the  Dean,  ‘ Lady  Burling-' 
ton,  I hear  you  can  sing;  sing  me  a song.’  The  lady  looked  on 
this  unceremonious  manner  of  asking  a favor  with  distaste,  and 
positively  refused.  He  said,  ‘She  should  sing,  or  he  would 
make  her.  Why,  madam,  I suppose  you  take  me  for  one  of 
your  poor  English  hedge-parsons;  sing  when  I bid  you.’  As 
the  Earl  did  nothing  but  laugh  at  this  freedom,  the  lady  was  so 
vexed  that  she  burst  into  tears  and  retired.  Ilis  first  compli- 
ment to  her  when  he  saw  her  again  was,  ‘ Pray,  madam,  are  you 
as  proud  and  ill  natured  now  as  when  I saw  you  last?  ’ To 
which  she  answered  with  great  good-humor,  ‘No,  Mr.  Dean; 
I ’ll  sing  for  you,  if  you  please.’  From  which  time  he  conceived 
a great  esteem  for  her.”  — Scott’s  Life.  “ . . . He  had  not  the 
least  tincture  of  vanity  in  his  conversation.  He  was  perhaps,  as 
he  said  himself,  too  proud  to  be  vain.  When  he  was  polite,  it 
was  in  a manner  entirely  his  own.  In  his  friendships  he  was 
constant  and  undisguised.  He  was  the  same  in  his  enmities.’* 
— Orrery. 


SWIFT. 


11 


He  says  as  much  himself  in  one  of  his 
letters  to  Bolingbroke  : All  my  endeavors  to 

distinguish  myself  were  only  for  want  of  a 
great  title  and  fortune,  that  I might  be  used 
like  a lord  by  those  who  have  an  opinion  of 
my  parts  ; whether  right  or  wrong  is  no  great 
matter.  And  so  the  reputation  of  wit  and 
great  learning  does  the  office  of  a blue  riband 
or  a coach  and  six.”* 

Could  there  be  a greater  candor  ? It  is  an 
outlaw,  who  says,  u These  are  my  brains; 
with  these  I ’ll  win  titles  and  compete  with 
fortune.  These  are  my  bullets;  these  I’ll 
turn  into  g Ad  ” ; and  he  hears  the  sound  of 
coaches  and  six,  takes  the  road  like  Macheath, 
and  makes  society  stand  and  deliver.  They 
are  all  on  their  knees  before  him.  Down  go 
my  lord  bishop’s  apron,  and  his  Grace’s  blue 
riband,  and  my  lady’s  brocade  petticoat  in  the 
mud.  lie  eases  the  one  of  a living,  the  other 
of  a patent  place,  the  third  of  a little  snug 
post  about  the  Court,  and  gives  them  over  to 
followers  of  his  own.  The  great  prize  has 
not  come  yet.  The  coach  with  the  mitre  and 
crosier  in  it,  which  he  intends  to  have  for  Jus 


* “ I make  no  figure  but  at  court,  where  I affect  to  turn  from 
a lord  to  the  meanest  of  my  acquaintances.”  — Journal  to  Stella. 

“ I am  plagued  with  bad  authors,  verse  and  prose,  who  send 
me  their  books  and  poems,  the  vilest  I ever  saw;  but  I have 
given  their  nam?s  to  my  man,  never  to  let  them  see  me.”  — ■ 
Journal  to  Stella. 

The  following  curious  paragraph  illustrates  the  life  of  a 
courtier : — 

“ Did  I ever  tell  you  that  the  Lord  Treasurer  hears  ill  with 
the  left  ear,  just  as  I do?  ...  I dare  not  tell  him  that  I am 
so,  for  fear  he  should  think  that  I counterfeited  to  make  my 
court ! ” — Journal  to  Stella . 


12 


ENGLISH  HTJMOBISTS. 


share,  has  been  delayed  on  the  way  from 
St.  James’s ; and  he  waits  and  waits  until 
nightfall,  when  his  runners  come  and  tell  him 
that  the  coach  has  taken  a different  road,  and 
escaped  him.  So  he  fires  his  pistols  into  the 
air  with  a curse,  and  rides  away  into  his  own 
country.* 

Swift’s  seems  to  me  to  be  as  good  a name 
to  point  a moral  or  adorn  a tale  of  ambi- 


* The  war  of  pamphlets  was  carried  on  fiercely  on  one  side 
and  the  other:  and  the  Whig  attacks  made  the  Ministry  Swift 
served  very  sore.  Bolingbroke  laid  hold  of  several  of  the 
Opposition"  pamphleteers,  and  bewails  their  “ factitiousness  ’* 
in  the  following  letter:  — 

Bolingbroke  to  the  Earl  of  Strafford. 

“ Whitehall,  July  23, 1712. 

“ It  is  a melancholy  consideration  that  the  laws  of  our 
country  are  too  weak  to  punish  effectually  those  factitious 
scribblers,  who  presume  to  blacken  the  brightest  characters, 
and  to  give  even  scurrilous  language  to  those  who  are  in  the 
first  degrees  of  honor.  This,  my  lord,  among  others,  is  a symp- 
tom of  the  decayed  condition  of  our  Government,  and  serves  to 
show  how  fatally  we  mistake  licentiousness  for  liberty.  All  I 
could  do  was  to  take  up  Hart,  the  printer,  to  send  him  to  New- 
gate, and  to  bind  him  over  upon  bail  to  be  prosecuted;  this  I 
have  done;  and  if  I can  arrive  at  legal  proof  against  the  author, 
Ridpath,  he  shall  have  the  same  treatment.” 

Swift  was  not  behind  his  illustrious  friend  in  this  virtuous” 
indignation.  In  the  history  of  the  four  last  years  of  the  Queen, 
the  Dean  speaks  in  the  most  edifying  manner  of  the  licentious- 
ness of  the  press  and  the  abusive  language  of  the  other  party  : — 
“ It  must  be  acknowledged  that  the  bad  practices  of  printers 
have  been  such  as  to  deserve  the  severest  animadversion  from 
the  public.  . . . The  adverse  party,  full  of  rage  and  leisure 
since  their  fall,  and  unanimous  in  their  cause,  employ  a set  of 
writers  by  subscription,  who  are  well  versed  in  all  the  topics  of 
defamation,  and  have  a style  and  genius  levelled  to  the  generab 
ity  of  their  readers.  . . . However,  the  mischiefs  of  the  press 
were  too  exorbitant  to  be  cured  by  such  a remedy  as  a tax  upon 
small  papers,  and  a bill  for  a much  more  effectual  regulation  of 
it  was  brought  into  the  House  of  Commons,  but  so  late  in  the 
session  that  there  was  no  time  to  pass  it,  for  there  always 
appeared  an  unwillingness  to  cramp  over-much  the  liberty  of 
the  press.” 

But  to  a clause  in  the  proposed  bill,  that  the  names  of 


SWIFT. 


13 


tion,  as  any  hero’s  that  ever  lived  and  failed. 
But  we  must  remember  that  the  morality  was 
lax  — that  other  gentlemen  besides  himself 
took  the  road  in  his  day  — that  public  society 
was  in  a strange  disordered  condition,  and  the 
State  was  ravaged  by  other  condottieri.  The 
Boyne  was  being  fought  and  won,  and  lost ; 
the  bells  rung  in  William’s  victory,  in  the  very 
same  tone  with  which  they  would  have  pealed 
for  James’s.  Men  were  loose  upon  politics, 


authors  should  be  set  co  every  printed  book,  pamphlet,  or  paper, 
his  Reverence  objects  altogether;  for,  says  he,  “besides  the 
objection  to  this  clause  from  the  practice  of  pious  men,  who,  in 
publishing  excellent  writings  for  the  service  of  religion,  have 
chosen,  out  of  an  humble  Christian  spirit , to  conceal  their 
names , it  is  certain  that  all  persons  of  true  genius  or  knowledge 
have  an  invincible  modesty  and  suspicion  of  themselves  upon 
first  sending  their  thoughts  into  the  world.” 

This  “ invincible  modesty  ” was  no  doubt  the  sole  reason 
which  induced  the  Dean  to  keep  the  secret  of  the  “ Drapier’s 
Letters  ” and  a hundred  humble  Christian  works  of  which  he 
was  the  author.  As  for  the  Opposition,  the  Doctor  was  for 
dealing  severely  with  them  : he  writes  to  Stella : — 

Journal.  Letter  XIX. 

“ London,  March  25,  1710-11. 

“ . . . We  have  let  Guiscard  be  buried  at  last,  after  show- 
ing him  pickled  in  a trough  this  fortnight  for  twopence  a 
piece;  and  the  fellow  that  showed  would  point  to  his  body  and 
say,  ‘ See,  gentlemen,  this  is  the  wound  that  was  given  him  by 
his  Grace  the  Duke  of  Ormond  ’ ; and  ‘ This  is  the  wound,’  etc. ; 
and  then  the  show  was  over,  and  another  set  of  rabble  came  in. 
’T  is  hard  that  our  laws  would  not  suffer  us  to  hang  his  body  in 
chains,  because  he  was  not  tried;  and  in  the  eye  of  the  law 
every  man  is  innocent  till  then.  ...” 

Journal.  Letter  XXVII. 

“ London,  July  25, 1711. 

“ I was  this  afternoon  with  Mr.  Secretary  at  his  office,  and 
helped  to  hinder  a man  of  his  pardon,  who  was  condemned  for 
a rape.  The  Under  Secretary  was  willing  to  save  him;  but  I 
told  the  Secretary  he  could  not  pardon  him  without  a favorable 
report  from  the  Judge;  besides,  he  was  a fiddler,  and  conse- 
quently a rogue,  and  deserved  hanging  for  something  else,  and 
so  he  shall  swing.” 


14 


ENGLISH  HUMOBISTS. 


and  had  to  shift  for  themselves.  They,  as 
well  as  old  beliefs  and  institutions,  had  lost 
their  moorings  and  gone  adrift  in  the  storm. 
As  in  the  South  Sea  Bubble,  almost  everybody 
gambled ; as  in  the  Railwa}^  mania  — not 
many  centuries  ago  — almost  every  one  took 
his  unlucky  share  : a man  of  that  time,  of  the 
vast  talents  and  ambition  of  Swift,  could 
scarce  do  otherwise  than  grasp  at  his  prize, 
and  make  his  spring  at  his  opportunity.  His 
bitterness,  his  scorn,  his  rage,  his  subsequent 
misanthropy  are  ascribed  by  some  panegyrists 
to  a deliberate  conviction  of  mankind’s  un- 
worthiness, and  a desire  to  amend  them  by 
castigation.  His  youth  was  bitter,  as  that  of 
a great  genius  bound  down  by  ignoble  ties, 
and  powerless  in  a mean  dependence  ; his  age 
was  bitter/  like  that  of  a great  genius,  that 
had  fought  the  battle  and  nearly  won  it,  and 
lost  it,  and  thought  of  it  afterwards,  writhing 
in  a lonely  exile.  A man  may  attribute  to 
the  gods,  if  he  likes,  what  is  caused  by  his 
own  fury,  or  disappointment,  or  self-will. 
What  public  man  — what  statesman  projecting 
a coup  — what  king  determined  on  an  invasion 
of  his  neighbor  — what  satirist  meditating  an 
onslaught  on  society  or  an  individual,  can’t  give 
a pretext  for  his  move  ? There  was  a French 
general  the  other  day  who  proposed  to  march 
into  this  country  and  put  it  to  sack  and  pillage, 
in  revenge  for  humanity  outraged  by  our 
conduct  at  Copenhagen : there  is  always  some 

* It  was  his  constant  practice  to  keep  his  birthday  as  a day 
of  mourning. 


SWIFT. 


15 


excuse  for  men  of  the  aggressive  turn.  They 
are  of  their  nature  warlike,  predatory,  eager 
for  fight,  plunder,  dominion.* 

As  fierce  a beak  and  talon  as  ever  struck, 
as  strong  a wing  as  ever  beat,  belonged  to 
Swift.  I am  glad,  for  one,  that  fate  wrested 
the  prey  out  of  his  claws,  and  cut  his  wings 
and  chained  him.  One  can  gaze,  and  not 
without  awe  and  pity,  at  the  lonely  eagle 
chained  behind  the  bars. 

That  Swift  was  born  at  No.  7 Hoey’s  Court, 
Dublin,  on  the  30th  November,  1667,  is  a 
certain  fact,  of  which  nobody  will  deny  the 
sister  island  the  honor  and  glory ; but,  it 
seems  to  me,  he  was  no  more  an  Irishman  than 
a man  born  of  English  parents  at  Calcutta  is 
a Hindoo. | Goldsmith  was  an  Irishman,  and 

always  an  Irishman  : Steele  was  an  Irishman, 

* “ These  devils  of  Grub  Street  rogues,  that  write  the 
Flying  Post  and  Medley  in  one  paper,  will  not  be  quiet.  They 
are  always  mauling  Lord  Treasurer,  Lord  Bolingbroke,  and  me. 
We  have  the  dog  under  prosecution,  but  Bolingbroke  is  not 
active  enough ; but  I hope  to  swinge  him.  He  is  a Scotch  rogue, 
one  Ridpath.  They  get  out  upon  bail,  and  write  on.  We  take 
them  again,  and  get  fresh  bail;  so  it  goes  round.”  — Journal  to 
Stella. 

t Swift  was  by  no  means  inclined  to  forget  such  considera- 
tions; and  his  English  birth  makes  its  mark,  strikingly  enough, 
every  now  and  then  in  his  writings.  Thus  in  a letter  to  Pope 
(Scott’s  Swift,  vol.  xix.  p.  97),  he  says  : — 

“ We  have  had  your  volume  of  letters.  . . . Some  of  those 
who  highly  value  you,  and  a few  who  knew  you  personally, 
are  grieved  to  find  you  make  no  distinction  between  the  English 
gentry  of  this  kingdom,  and  the  savage  old  Irish  (who  are  only 
the  vulgar,  and  some  gentlemen  who  live  in  the  Irish  parts  of 
the  kingdom) ; but  the  English  colonies,  who  are  three  parts  in 
four,  are  much  more  civilized  than  many  counties  in  England, 
and  speak  better  English,  and  are  much  better  bred.” 

And  again,  in  the  fourth  Drapier’s  Letter,  we  have  the  fol- 
lowing : — 

“A  short  paper,  printed  at  Bristol,  and  reprinted  here,  re- 
ports Mr.  Wood  to  say,  ‘ that  he  wonders  at  the  impudence  and 


16  ENGLISH  HUMOBISTS. 

and  always  an  Irishman : Swift’s  heart  was 
English  and  in  England,  his  habits  English, 
his  logic  eminently  English ; his  statement  is 
elaborately  simple  ; he  shuns  tropes  and  meta- 
phors, and  uses  his  ideas  and  words  with  a 
wise  thrift  and  economy,  as  he  used  his  money  : 
with  which  he  could  be  generous  and  splendid 
upon  great  occasions,  but  which  he  husbanded 
when  there  was  no  need  to  spend  it.  He 
never  indulges  in  needless  extravagance  of 
rhetoric,  lavish  epithets,  profuse  imagery. 
He  lays  his  opinion  before  you  with  a grave 
simplicity  and  a perfect  neatness.* *  Dreading 
ridicule  too,  as  a man  of  his  humor  — above  all 
an  Englishman  of  his  humor  — certainly  would, 
he  is  afraid  to  use  the  poetical  power  which  he 
really  possessed ; one  often  fancies  in  reading 


insolence  of  the  Irish  in  refusing  his  coin.’  When,  by  the  way, 
it. is  the  true  English  people  of  Ireland  who  refuse  it,  although 
we  take  it  for  granted  that  the  Irish  will  do  so  too  whenever 
they  are  asked.”  — Scott’s  Swift,  vol.  vi.  p 453. 

He  goes  further,  in  a good-humored  satirical  paper,  “ On 
Barbarous  Denominations  in  Ireland,”  where  (after  abusing,  as 
he  was  wont,  the  Scotch  cadence,  as  well  as  expression)  he 
advances  to  the  “ Irish  brogue ,”  and  speaking  of  the  “ censure  ” 
which  it  brings  dovrn,  says  : — 

“ And  what  is  yet  worse,  it  is  too  well  known  that  the  bad 
consequence  of  this  opinion  affects  those  among  us  who  are  not 
the  least  liable  to  such  reproaches  farther  than  the  misfortune 
of  being  born  in  Ireland,  although  of  English  parents,  and 
whose  education  has  been  chiefly  in  that  kingdom.”  — Ibid., 
vol.  vii.  p.  149. 

But,  indeed,  if  we  are  to  make  anything  of  Race  at  all,  we 
must  call  that  man  an  Englishman  whose  father  comes  from  an 
old  Yorkshire  family,  and  his  mother  from  an  old  Leicester- 
shire one ! 

* “ The  style  of  his  conversation  was  very  much  of  a piece 
with  that  of  his  writings,  concise  and  clear  and  strong.  Being 
one  day  at  a Sheriff’s  feast,  who  amongst  other  toasts  called  out 
to  him  ‘ Mr.  Dean,  The  Trade  of  Ireland  ! ’ he  answered  quick  : 
‘ Sir,  I drink  no  memories!  ’ . . . 

“ Happening  to  be  in  company  with  a petulant  young  man 
who  prided  himself  on  saying  pert  things  . . . and  who  cried 


SWIFT. 


17 


him  that  he  dares  not  be  eloquent  when  he 
might ; that  he  does  not  speak  above  his  voice, 
as  it  were,  and  the  tone  of  society. 

His  initiation  into  politics,  his  knowledge 
of  business,  his  knowledge  of  polite  life,  his 
acquaintance  with  literature  even,  which  he 
could  not  have  pursued  very  sedulously  dur- 
ing that  reckless  career  at  Dublin,  Swift  got 
under  the  roof  of  Sir  William  Temple.  He 
was  fond  of  telling  in  after  life  what  quantities 
of  books  he  devoured  there,  and  how  King 
William  taught  him  to  cut  asparagus  in  the 
Dutch  fashion.  It  was  at  Sliene  and  at  Moor 
Park,  with  a salary  of  twenty  pounds  and  a 
dinner  at  the  upper  servants’  table,  that  this 
great  and  lonely  Swift  passed  a ten  years’ 
apprenticeship  — wore  a cassock  that  was 
only  not  a livery  — bent  down  a knee  as 
proud  as  Lucifer’s  to  supplicate  my  lady’s 
good  graces,  or  run  on  his  honor’s  er- 
rands.* * It  was  here,  as  he  was  writing  at 
Temple’s  table,  or  following  his  patron’s  walk, 
that lie  saw  and  heard  the  men  who  had  gov- 


out,  ‘You  must  know,  Mr.  Dean,  that  I set  up  for  a wit ! ’ * Do 

you  so?’  says  the  Dean.  ‘Take  my  advice,  and  sit  down 
again!  * 

“ At  another  time,  being  in  company,  where  a lady  whisking 
her  long  train  (long  trains  were  then  in  fashion)  swept  down  a 
fine  fiddle  and  broke  it;  Swift  cried  out  — 

* Mantua  vae  miserae  nimium  vicina  Cremonae  ! ’ ” 

— Dr.  Delany,  Observations  upon  Lord  Orrery's  “ Remarks , 
etc.,  on  Swift."  London,  1754. 

* “ Don’t  you  remember  how  I used  to  be  in  pain  when  Sir 
William  Temple  would  look  cold  and  out  of  humor  for  three  or 
four  days,  and  I used  to  suspect  a hundred  reasons?  I have 
plucked  up  my  spirits  since  then,  faith ; he  spoiled  a fine  gen- 
tleman.”— Journal  to  Stella. 


2 


18 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


erned  the  great  world  — measured  himself 
with  them,  looking  up  from  his  silent  corner, 
gauged  their  brains,  weighed  their  wits, 
turned  them,  and  tried  them,  and  marked 
them.  Ah ! what  platitudes  he  must  have 
heard ! what  feeble  jokes ! what  pompous 
commonplaces ! what  small  men  they  must 
have  seemed  under  those  enormous  periwigs, 
to  the  swarthy,  uncouth,  silent  Irish  secretary. 
I wonder  if  it  ever  struck  Temple,  that  that 
Irishman  was  his  master?  I suppose  that  dis- 
mal conviction  did  not  present  itself  under  the 
ambrosial  wig,  or  Temple  could  never  have 
lived  with  Swift.  Swift  sickened,  rebelled, 
left  the  service  — ate  humble  pie  and  came 
back  again ; and  so  for  ten  years  went  on, 
gathering  learning,  swallowing  scorn,  and  sub- 
mitting with  a stealthy  rage  to  his  fortune. 

Temple’s  style  is  the  perfection  of  practised 
and  easy  good-breeding.  If  he  does  not  pene- 
trate very  deeply  into  a subject,  he  professes 
a very  gentlemanly  acquaintance  with  it ; if 
he  makes  rather  a parade  of  Latin,  it  wag  the 
custom  of  his  day,  as  it  was  the  custom  for  a 
gentleman  to  envelop  his  head  in  a periwig 
and  his  hands  in  lace  ruffles.  If  he  wears 
buckles  and  square-toed  shoes,  he  steps  in 
them  with  a consummate  grace,  and  you  never 
hear  their  creak,  or  find  them  treading  upon 
any  lady’s  train  or  any  rival’s  heels  in  the 
Court  crowd.  When  that  grows  too  hot  or 
too  agitated  for  him,  he  politely  leaves  it. 
He  retires  to  his  retreat  of  Shene  or  Moor 
Park ; and  lets  the  King’s  party  and  the 


SWIFT. 


10 


Prince  of  Orange’s  party  battle  it  ont  among 
themselves.  He  reveres  the  Sovereign  (and 
no  man  perhaps  ever  testified  to  his  loyalty  by 
so  elegant  a bow) ; he  admires  the  Prince  of 
Orange  ; but  there  is  one  person  whose  ease 
and  comfort  he  loves  more  than  all  the  princes 
in  Christendom,  and  that  valuable  member  of 
society  is  himself,  Gulielmus  Temple,  Baronet- 
tus.  One  sees  him  in  his  retreat ; between 
his  study- chair  and  his  tulip-beds,*  clipping 
his  apricots  and  pruning  his  essays,  — the 
statesman,  the  ambassador  no  more  ; but  the 
philosopher,  the  Epicurean,  the  fine  gentle- 
man and  courtier  at  St.  James’s  as  at  Shene  ; 
where,  in  place  of  kings  and  fair  ladies,  he 
pays  his  court  to  the  Ciceronian  majesty ; or 
walks  a minuet  with  the  Epic  Muse  ; or  dallies 
by  the  south  wall  with  the  ruddy  nymph  of 
gardens. 

Temple  seems  to  have  received  and  exacted 

* **  . . . The  Epicureans  were  more  intelligible  in  their 
notion,  and  fortunate  in  their  expression,  when  they  placed  a 
man’s  happiness  in  the  tranquillity  of  his  mind  and  indolence  of 
body;  for  while  we  are  composed  of  both,  I doubt  both  must 
have  a share  in  the  good  or  ill  we  feel.  As  men  of  several  lan- 
guages say  the  same  things  in  very  different  words,  so  in  several 
ages,  countries,  constitutions  of  laws  and  religion,  the  same 
thing  seems  to  be  meant  by  very  different  expressions  : what  is 
called  by  the  Stoics,  apathy,  or  dispassion;  by  the  sceptics,  in- 
disturbance;  by  the  Molinists,  quietism;  by  common  men, 
peace  of  conscience,  — seems  all  to  mean  but  great  tranquillity 
of  mind.  . . . For  this  reason  Epicurus  passed  his  life 
wholly  in  his  garden;  there  he  studied,  there  he  exercised, 
there  he  taught  his  philosophy;  and,  indeed,  no  other  sort  of 
abode  seems  to  contribute  so  much  to  both  the  tranquillity  of 
mind  and  indolence  of  body,  which  he  made  his  chief  ends. 
The  sweetness  of  the  air,  the  pleasantness  of  smell,  the  verdure 
of  plants,  the  cleanness  and  lightness  of  food,  the  exercise  of 

working  or  walking;  but,  above  all,  the  exemption  from  cares 
and  solicitude,  seem  equally  to  favor  and  improve  both  con- 
templation and  health,  the  enjoyment  of  sense  and  imagination, 


20 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


a prodigious  deal  of  veneration  from  his 
household,  and  to  have  been  coaxed,  and 
warmed,  and  cuddled  by  the  people  round 
about  him,  as  delicately  as  any  of  the  plants 
which  he  loved.  When  he  fell  ill  in  1693,  the 
household  was  aghast  at  his  indisposition : 
mild  Dorothea  his  wife,  the  best  companion  of 
the  best  of  men  — 

“Mild  Dorothea,  peaceful,  wise,  and  great, 
Trembling  beheld  the  doubtful  hand  of  fate.” 

As  for  Dorinda,  his  sister,  — 

“Those  who  would  grief  describe,  might  come  and  trace 
Its  watery  footsteps  in  Dorinda’s  face. 

To  see  her  weep,  joy  every  face  forsook, 

And  grief  flung  sables  on  each  menial  look. 

The  humble  tribe  mourned  for  the  quickening  soul, 
That  furnished  spirit  and  motion  through  the  whole.” 

Is  n’t  that  line  in  which  grief  is  described  as 
putting  the  menials  into  a mourning  livery,  a 
fine  image?  One  of  the  menials  wrote  it,  who 
did  not  like  that  Temple  livery  nor  those 


and  thereby  the  quiet  and  ease  both  of  body  and  mind.  . . . 
Where  Paradise  was,  has  been  much  debated,  and  little  agreed; 
but  what  sort  of  place  is  meant  by  it  may  perhaps  easier  be 
conjectured.  It  seems  to  have  been  a Persian  word,  since 
Xenophon  and  other  Greek  authors  mention  it  as  what  was 
much  in  use  and  delight  among  the  kings  of  those  eastern 
countries.  Strabo  describing  Jericho:  ‘Ibi  est  palmetum,  cui 
immixtse  sunt  etiam  aliae  stirpes  hortenses,  locus  ferax  palrais 
abundans,  spatio  stadiorum  centum,  totus  irriguus  : ibi  est  Regis 
Balsami  paradisus.’  ” — Essay  on  Gardens. 

In  the  same  famous  essay  Temple  speaks  of  a friend,  whose 
conduct  and  prudence  he  characteristically  admires  : — 

“ . . . I thought  it  very  prudent  in  a gentleman  of  my 
friends  in  Staffordshire,  who  is  a great  lover  of  his  garden,  to 
pretend  no  higher,  though  his  soil  be  good  enough,  than  to  the 
perfection  of  plums;  and  in  these  (by  bestowing  south  walls 
upon  them),  he  has  very  well  succeeded,  which  he  could  never 
have  done  in  attempts  upon  peaches  and  grapes;  and  a good 
plum  is  certainly  better  than  an  ill  peach,” 


SWIFT. 


21 


twenty-pound  wages.  Cannot  one  fancy  the 
uncouth  young  servitor,  with  downcast  eyes, 
books  and  papers  in  hand,  following  at  his 
honor’s  heels  in  the  garden  walk  ; or  taking  his 
honor’s  orders  as  he  stands  by  the  great  chair, 
where  Sir  William  has  the  gout,  and  his  feet 
all  blistered  with  moxa?  When  Sir  AVilliam 
has  the  gout  or  scolds,  it  must  be  hard  work 
at  the  second  table ; * the  Irish  secretary 


* Swift’s  Thoughts  on  Hanging. 

( Directions  to  Servants . ) 

“ To  grow  old  in  the  office  of  a footman  is  the  highest  of  all 
indignities;  therefore,  when  you  find  years  coming  on  without 
hopes  of  a place  at  court,  a command  in  the  army,  a succession 
to  the  stewardship,  an  employment  in  the  revenue  (which  two 
last  you  cannot  obtain  without  reading  and  writing),  or  running 
away  with  your  master’s  niece  or  daughter,  I directly  advise 
you  to  go  upon  the  road,  which  is  the  only  post  of  honor  left 
you  : there  you  will  meet  many  of  your  old  comrades,  and  live 
a short  life  and  a merry  one,  ancj  make  a figure  at  your  exit, 
wherein  I will  give  you  some  instructions. 

“The  last  advice  I give  you  relates  to  your  behavior  when 
you  are  going  to  be  hanged : which,  either  for  robbing  your 
master,  for  house  breaking,  or  going  upon  the  highway,  or  in  a 
drunken  quarrel  by  killing  the  first  man  you  meet,  may  very 
probably  be  your  lot,  and  is  owing  to  one  of  these  three  quali- 
ties: either  a love  of  good  fellowship,  a generosity  of  mind,  or 
too  much  vivacity  of  spirits.  Your  good  behavior  on  this  arti- 
cle will  concern  your  whole  community  : deny  the  fact  with  all 
solemnity  of  imprecations  : a hundred  of  your  brethren,  if  they 
can  be  admitted,  will  attend  about  the  bar,  and  be  ready  upon 
demand  to  give  you  a character  before  the  Court;  let  nothing 
prevail  on  you  to  confess,  but  the  promise  of  a pardon  for  dis- 
covering your  comrades;  but  I suppose  all  this  to  be  vain  ; for 
if  you  escape  now,  your  fate  will  be  the  same  another  da/. 
Get  a speech  to  be  written  by  the  best  author  of  Newgate  : some 
of  your  kind  wenches  will  provide  you  with  a ho  Hand  shirt  and 
white  cap,  crowned  with  a crimson  or  black  ribbon  ; take  leave 
cheerfully  of  all  your  friends  in  Newgate;  mount  the  cart  with 
courage;  fall  on  your  knees ; lift  up  your  eyes ; hold  a book  in 
your  hands,  although  you  cannot  read  a word  ; deny  the  fact  at  the 
gallows;  kiss  and  forgive  the  hangman,  and  so  farewell:  you 
shall  be  buried  in  pomp  and  at  the  charge  of  the  fraternity  : the 
surgeon  shall  not  touch. a limb  of  you:  and  your  fame  shall 
continue  until  a successor  of  equal  renown  succeeds  in  your 
place.  ...” 


22 


ENGLISH  HUMOBISTS . 


owned  as  much  afterwards ; and  when  he 
came  to  dinner,  how  he  must  have  lashed  and 
growled  and  torn  the  household  with  his  gibes 
and  scorn ! What  would  the  steward  say 
about  the  pride  of  them  Irish  schollards  — 
and  this  one  had  got  no  great  credit  even  at 
his  Irish  college,  if  the  truth  were  known  — 
and  what  a contempt  his  Excellency’s  own 
gentleman  must  have  had  for  Parson  Teague 
from  Dublin.  (The  valets  and  chaplains 
were  always  at  war.  It  is  hard  to  say  which 
Swift  thought  the  more  contemptible.)  And 
what  must  have  been  the  sadness,  the  sad- 
ness and  terror,  of  the  housekeeper’s  little 
daughter  writh  the  curling  black  ringlets  and 
the  sweet  smiling  face,  when  the  secretary 
who  teaches  her  to  read  and  write,  and  whom 
she  loves  and  reverences  above  all  things, — 
above  mother,  above  mild  Dorothea,  above 
that  tremendous  Sir  William  in  his  square 
toes  and  periwig,  — when  Mr.  Swift  comes 
down  from  his  master  with  rage  in  his  heart, 
and  has  not  a kind  word  even  for  little  Hester 
Johnson  ? 

Perhaps,  for  the  Irish  secretary,  his  Excel- 
lency’s condescension  was  even  more  cruel  than 
his  frowns.  Sir  William  would  perpetually 
quote  Latin  and  the  ancient  classics  ap  o- 
p)os  of  his  gardens  and  his  Dutch  statues 
and plates-bandes,  and  talk  about  Epicurus  and 
Diogenes  Laertius,  Julius  Caesar,  Semiramis, 
and  the  gardens  of  the  Hesperides,  Maecenas, 
Strabo  describing  Jericho,  and  the  Assyrian 
kings.  Apropos  of  beans,  he  would  mention 


SWIFT. 


23 


Pythagoras’s  precept  to  abstain  from  beans, 
and  that  his  precept  probably  meant  that  wise 
men  should  abstain  from  public  affairs.  He 
is  a placid  Epicurean ; lie  is  a Pythagorean 
philosopher ; lie  is  a wise  man  — that  is  the 
deduction.  Does  not  Swift  think  so?  One 
can  imagine  the  downcast  eyes  lifted  up  for  a 
moment,  and  the  flash  of  scorn  which  they 
emit.  Swift’s  eyes  were  as  azure  as  the 
heavens ; Pope  says  nobly  (as  everything 
Pope  said  and  thought  of  his  friend  was  good 
and  noble),  His  eyes  are  as  azure  as  the 
heavens  and  have  a charming  archness  in 
them.”  And  one  person  in  that  household, 
that  pompous,  stately,  kindly  Moor  Park,  saw 
heaven  nowhere  else. 

But  the  Temple  amenities  and  solemnities 
did  not  agree  with  Swift.  He  was  half-killed 
with  a surfeit  of  Shene  pippins  ; and  in  a gar- 
den-seat  which  he  devised  for  himself  at  Moor 
Park,  and  where  he  devoured  greedily  the 
stock  of  books  within  his  reach,  he  caught  a 
vertigo  and  deafness  which  punished  and  tor- 
mented him  through  life.  He  could  not  bear 
the  place  or  the  servitude.  Even  in  that 
poem  of  courtly  condolence,  from  which  we 
have  quoted  a few  lines  of  mock  melancholy, 
he  breaks  out  of  the  funereal  procession  with  a 
mad  shriek,  as  it  were,  and  rushes  away  crying 
his  own  grief,  cursing  his  own  fate,  foreboding 
madness,  and  forsaken  by  fortune,  and  even 
hope. 

I don’t  know  anything  more  melancholy  than 
the  letter  to  Temple,  in  which,  after  having 


24 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS . 


broke  from  his  bondage,  the  poor  wretch 
crouches  piteously  towards  his  cage  again,  and 
deprecates  his  master’s  anger.  He  asks  for 
testimonials  for  orders.  “ The  particulars  re- 
quired of  me  are  what  relate  to  morals  and 
learning ; and  the  reasons  of  quitting  your 
honor’s  family  — that  is,  whether  the  last  was 
occasioned  by  any  ill  action.  They  are  left 
entirely  to  your  honor’s  mercy,  though  in  the 
first  I think  I cannot  reproach  myself  for  any- 
thing further  than  for  infirmities . This  is  all 
I dare  at  present  beg  from  your  honor,  under 
circumstances  of  life  not  worth  your  regard : 
what  is  left  me  to  wish  (next  to  the  health 
and  prosperity  of  your  honor  and  family)  is 
that  Heaven  would  one  day  allow  me  the  op- 
portunity of  leaving  my  acknowledgments  at 
your  feet.  I beg  my  most  humble  duty  and 
service  be  presented  to  my  ladies,  your  honor’s 
lady  and  sister.”  — Can  prostration  fall  deeper  ? 
could  a slave  bow  lower  ? * 

Twenty  years  afterwards  Bishop  Kennet, 


* “ He  continued  in  Sir  William  Temple’s  house  till  the  death 
of  that  great  man.”  — Anecdotes  of  the  Family  of  Swift,  by  the" 
Dean. 

“ It  has  since  pleased  God  to  take  this  good  and  great  person 
to  himself.”  — Preface  to  Temple's  Works. 

On  all  public  occasions,  Swift  speaks  of  Sir  William  in  the 
same  tone.  But  the  reader  will  better  understand  how  acutely 
he  remembered  the  indignities  he  suffered  in  his  household, 
from  the  subjoined  extracts  from  the  Journal  to  Stella  : — 

“ I called  at  Mr.  Secretary  the  other  day,  to  see  what  the 

d ailed  him  on  Sunday  : I made  him  a very  proper  speech; 

told  him  I observed  he  was  much  out  of  temper,  that  I did  not 
expect  he  would  tell  me  the  cause,  but  would  be  glad  to  see  he 
was  in  better;  and  one  thing  I warned  him  of,  — never  to  appear 
cold  to  me,  for  I would  not  be  treated  like  a school-boy;  that  I 
had  felt  too  much  of  that  in  my  life  already  ” (meaning  Sir  Wil- 
liam Temple),  etc.,  etc.  — Journal  to  Stella. 

“I  am  thinking  what  a veneration  we  used  to  have  for  Sir 


SWIFT. 


25 


describing  the  same  man,  says,  u Dr.  Swift 
came  into  the  coffee-house  and  had  a bow 
from  everybody  but  me.  When  I came  to  the 
antechamber  [at  Court]  to  wait  before  prayers, 
Dr.  Swift  was  the  principal  man  of  talk  and 
business.  He  was  soliciting  the  Earl  of  Arran 
to  speak  to  his  brother,  the  Duke  of  Ormond, 
to  get  a place  for  a clergyman.  He  W'as  prom- 
ising Mr.  Thorold  to  undertake,  with  my  Lord 
Treasurer,  that  he  should  obtain  a salary  of 
£200  per  annum  as  member  of  the  English 
Church  at  Rotterdam.  He  stopped  F.  G wynne, 
Esq.,  going  into  the  Queen  with  the  red  bag, 
and  told  him  aloud,  he  had  something  to  say 
to  him  from  my  Lord  Treasurer.  He  took 
out  his  gold  watch,  and  telling  the  time  of  day. 
complained  that  it  was  very  late.  A gentle- 
man said  he  was  too  fast.  4 How  can  I help 
it,’  says  the  Doctor,  ‘if  the  courtiers  give  me 
a watch  that  won’t  go  right?’  Then  he  in- 
structed a 3Toung  nobleman,  that  the  best  poet 
in  England  was  Mr.  Pope  (a  papist),  who  had 
begun  a translation  of  Homer  into  English, 
for  which  he  would  have  them  all  subscribe  : 


William  Temple  because  he  might  have  been  Secretary  of  State 
at  fifty ; and  here  is  a young  fellow  hardly  thirty  in  that  em- 
ployment.” — Ibid. 

“ The  Secretary  is  as  easy  with  me  as  Mr.  Addison  was.  I 
have  often  thought  what  a splutter  Sir  William  Temple  makes 
about  being  Secretary  of  State.”  — Ibid. 

“ Lord  Treasurer  has  had  an  ugly  fit  of  the  rheumatism,  but 
is  now  quite  well.  I was  playing  at  one -arid-thirty  with  him 
and  his  family  the  other  night.  He  gave  us  twelvepence  apiece 
to  begin  with;  it  put  me  in  mind  of  Sir  William  Temple.”  — 
Ibid. 

“ I thought  I saw  Jack  Temple  [nephew  to  Sir  William]  and 
his  wife  pass  by  me  to-day  in  their  coach;  but  I took  no  notice 
of  them.  I am  glad  I have  wholly  shaken  off  that  family.”  — 

to  S .,  /September,  1710. 


2-; 


ENGLISH  II  UNO  HI  STS. 


4 For,’  says  he,  4 lie  shall  not  begin  to  print 
till  I have  a thousand  guineas  for  him.’* 
Lord  Treasurer,  after  leaving  the  Queen, 
came  trough  the  room,  beckoning  Doctor 
Swift  to  follow  him,  — both  went  off  just 
before  prayers.”  There’s  a little  malice  in 
the  Bishop’s  46  just  before  prayers.” 

This  picture  of  the  great  Dean  seems  a true 
one,  and  is  harsh,  though  not  altogether  un- 
pleasant. He  was  doing  good,  and  to  deserv- 
ing men,  too,  in  the  midst  of  these  intrigues 
and  triumphs.  His  journals  and  a thousand 
anecdotes  of  him  relate  his  kind  acts  and 
rough  manners.  1 1 is  hand  wras  constantly 
stretched  out  to  relieve  an  honest  man  — he 
was  cautious  about  his  money,  but  ready.  If 
you  were  in  a strait  would  you  like  such  a 
benefactor?  I think  I would  rather  have  had 
a potato  and  a friendly  word  from  Goldsmith 
than  have  been  beholden  to  the  Dean  for  a 
guinea  and  a dinner. f He  insulted  a man  as 
he  served  him,  made  women  cry,  guests  look 
foolish,  bullied  unlucky  friends,  and  flung  his 
benefactions  into  poor  men’s  faces.  No  ; the 


* “ Swift  must  be  allowed,”  says  Doctor  Johnson,  “ for  a time, 
to  have  dictated  the  political  opiuious  of  the  English  nation.” 

A conversation  on  the  Dean’s  pamphlets  excited  one  of  the 
Doctor’s  liveliest  sallies.  “ One,  in  particular,  praised  his  ‘ Con- 
duct of  the  Allies.’  Johnson:  ‘Sir,  his  “Conduct  of  the 
Allies”  is  a performance  of  very  little  ability.  . . . Why,  sir, 
Tom  Davies  might  have  written  the  “ Conduct  of  the  Allies ! ” * ** 
— Boswell’s  Life  of  Johnson. 

f “ Whenever  he  fell  into  the  company  of  any  person  for 
the  first  time,  it  was  his  custom  to  try  their  tempers  and  dispo- 
sition by  some  abrupt  question  that  bore  the  appearance  of  rude- 
ness. If  this  were  well  taken,  and  answered  with  good-humor, 
he  afterwards  made  amends  by  his  civilities.  But  if  he  saw  any 
marks  of  resentment,  from  alarmed  pride,  vanity,  or  conceit,  he 
dropped  all  further  intercourse  with  the  party.  This  will  b§ 


SWIFT. 


27 


Dean  was  no  Irishman  — no  Irishman  ever 
gave  but  with  a kind  word  and  a kind  heart. 

It  is  told,  as  if  it  were  to  Swift’s  credit,  that 
the  Dean  of  St.  Patrick’s  performed  his  family 
devotions  every  morning  regularly,  but  with 
such  secrecy  that  the  guests  in  his  house  were 
never  in  the  least  aware  of  the  ceremony. 
There  was  no  need  surely  why  a church  digni- 
tary should  assemble  his  family  privily  in  a 
crvpt,  and  as  if  he  was  afraid  of  heathen  per- 
secution. But  I think  the  world  was  right, 
and  the  bishops  who  advised  Queen  Anne 
when  they  counselled  her  not  to  appoint  the 
author  of  the  “ Tale  of  a Tub  ” to  a bishopric, 
gave  perfectly  good  advice.  The  man  who 
wrote  the  arguments  and  illustrations  in  that 
wild  book,  could  not  but  be  aware  what  must 
be  the  sequel  of  the  propositions  which  he  laid 
down.  The  boon  companion  of  Pope  and 
Bolingbroke,  who  chose  these  as  the  friends  of 
his  life,  and  the  recipients  of  his  confidence 
and  affection,  must  have  heard  many  an  argu- 
ment, and  joined  in  many  a conversation  over 
Pope’s  port  or  St.  John’s  burgundy,  which 

illustrated  by  an  anecdote  of  that  sort  related  by  Mrs.  Pilking- 
ton.  After  supper,  the  Dean  having  decanted  a bottle  of  wine, 
poured  wThat  remained  into  a glass,  and  seeing  it  was  muddy, 
presented  it  to  Mr.  Pilkington  to  drink  it.  ‘ For,’  said  he,  ‘ I 
always  keep  some  poor  parson  to  drink  the  foul  wine  for  me.’ 
Mr.  Pilkington,  entering  into  his  humor,  thanked  him,  aud  told 
him  ‘ he  did  not  know  the  difference,  but-  was  glad  to  get  a 
glass  at  any  rate.’  ‘ Why,  then,’  said  the|Dean,  ‘ you  sha’n’t,  for 

I’ll  drink  it  myself.  Why, take  you,  you  are  wiser  than 

a paltry  curate  whom  I asked  to  dine  with  me  a few  days  ago ; 
for  upon  my  making  the  same  speech  to  him,  he  said  he  did  not 
understand  such  usage,  and  so  walked  off  without  his  dinner. 
By  the  same  token,  I told  the  gentleman  who  recommended  him 
to  me  that  the  fellow  was  a blockhead,  and  I had  done  with 
him.’  ” — Sheridan’s  Life  of  Swift . 


28 


ENGLISH  IIUMOBISTS. 


would  not  bear  to  be  repeated  at  other  men’s 
boards. 

I know  of  few  things  more  conclusive  as  to 
the  sincerity  of  Swift’s  religion  than  his  advice 
to  poor  John  Gay  to  turn  clergyman,  and  look 
out  for  a seat  on  the  Bench.  Gay,  the  author  of 
the  u Beggar’s  Opera  ” — Gay,  the  wildest  of 
the  wits  about  town  — it  was  this  man  that 
Jonathan  Swift  advised  to  take  orders  — to 
invest  in  a cassock  and  bands  — just  as  he 
advised  him  to  husband  his  shillings  and  put 
his  thousand  pounds  out  at  interest.  The 
Queen,  and  the  bishops,  and  the  world,  were 
right  in  mistrusting  the  religion  of  that  man.* 

I am  not  here,  of  course,  to  speak  of  any 
man’s  religious  views,  except  in  so  far  as  they 


* From  the  Archbishop  of  Cashell. 

“Cashell,  May  31,  1735. 

“ Dear  Sir , — I have  been  bo  unfortunate  in  all  my  contests 
of  late,  that  I am  resolved  to  have  no  more,  especially  where  I 
am  likely  to  be  overmatched ; and  as  I have  some  reason  to  hope 
what  is  past  will  be  forgotten,  I confess  I did  endeavor  in  my 
last  to  put  the  best  color  I could  think  upon  a very  bad  cause. 
My  friends  judge  right  of  my  idleness;  but,  in  reality,  it  has 
hitherto  proceeded  from  a hurry  and  confusion,  arising  from  a 
thousand  unlucky  unforeseen  accidents  rather  than  mere  sloth. 
I have  but  one  troublesome  affair  upon  my  hands,  which,  by  the 
help  of  the  prime  serjeant,  I hope  soon  to  get  rid  of;  and  then 
you  shall  see  me  a true  Irish  bishop.  Sir  James  Ware  has 
made  a very  useful  collection  of  the  memorable  actions  of  my 
predecessors.  He  tells  me,  they  were  born  in  such  a town  of 
England  or  Ireland;  were  consecrated  such  a year;  and  if  not 
translated,  were  buried  in  the  Cathedral  Church,  either  on  the 
north  or  south  side.  Whence  I conclude,  that  a good  bishop 
has  nothing  more  to  do  than  to  eat,  drink,  grow  fat,  rich,  and 
die ; which  laudable  example  I propose  for  the  remainder  of  my 
life  to  follow;  for  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I have  for  these  four  or 
five  years  past  met  with  so  much  treachery,  baseness,  and  in- 
gratitude among  mankind,  that  I can  hardly  think  it  incum- 
bent on  any  man  to  endeavor  to  do  good  to  so  perverse  a gener- 
ation. 

“ I am  truly  concerned  at  the  account  you  give  me  of  your 
health.  Without  doubt  a southern  ramble  will  prove  the  best 


SWIFT. 


29 


influence  his  literary  character,  his  life,  his 
humor.  The  most  notorious  sinners  of  all 
those  fellow-mortals  whom  it  is  our  business 
to  discuss  — Harry  Fielding  and  Dick  Steele 
— were  especially  loud,  and  I believe  really 
fervent,  in  their  expressions  of  belief ; they 
belabored  freethinkers,  and  stoned  imaginary 
atheists  on  all  sorts  of  occasions,  going  out 
of  their  way  to  bawl  their  own  creed,  and 
persecute  their  neighbor’s,  and  if  they  sinned 
and  stumbled,  as  they  constantly  did  with 
debt,  with  drink,  with  all  sorts  of  bad  be- 
havior, they  got  upon  their  knees  and  cried 
“ Peccavi 99  with  a most  sonorous  orthodoxy. 
Yes ; poor  Harry  Fielding  and  poor  Dick 
Steele  were  trusty  and  undoubting  Church 


remedy  you  can  take  to  recover  your  flesh;  aud  I do  not  know, 
except  in  one  stage,  where  you  can  choose  a road  so  suited  to 
your  circumstances,  as  from  Dublin  hither.  You  have  to  Kil- 
kenny a turnpike  and  good  inns,  at  every  ten  or  twelve  miles’ 
end.  From  Kilkenny  hither  is  twenty  long  miles,  bad  road,  and 
no  inns  at  all : but  I have  an  expedient  for  you.  At  the  foot  of  a 
very  high  hill,  just  midway,  there  lives  in  a neat  thatched  cabin, 
a parson,  who  is  not  poor;  his  wife  is  allowed  to  be  the  best 
little  woman  in  the  world.  Her  chickens  are  the  fattest,  aud 
her  ale  the  best  in  all  the  country.  Besides,  the  parson  has  a 
little  cellar  of  his  own,  of  which  he  keeps  the  key,  where  he 
always  has  a hogshead  of  the  best  wine  that  can  be  got,  in 
bottles  well  corked,  upon  their  side;  and  he  cleans,  and  pulls 
out  the  cork  better,  I think,  than  Robin.  Here  I design  to  meet 
you  with  a coach;  if  you  be  tired,  you  shall  stay  all  night;  if 
not,  after  dinner,  we  will  set  out  about  four,  and  be  at  Cashell 
by  nine;  and  by  going  through  fields  and  by-ways,  which  the 
parson  will  show  us,  we  shall  escape  all  the  rocky  and  stony 
roads  that  lie  between  this  place  and  that,  which  are  certainly 
very  bad.  I hope  you  will  be  so  kind  as  to  let  me  know  a post 
or  two  before  you  set  out,  the  very  day  you  will  be  at  Kilkenny, 
that  I may  have  all  things  prepared  for  you.  It  may  be,  if  you 
ask  him,  Cope  will  come  : he  will  do  nothing  for  me.  There- 
fore, depending  upon  your  positive  promise,  I shall  add  no 
more  arguments  to  persuade  you,  and  am,  with  the  greatest 
truth,  your  most  faithful  and  obedient  servant, 

“Theo.  Cashell.” 


30 


ENGLISH  HUM 07? IS  TS. 


of  England  men ; they  abhorred  Popery, 
atheism,  and  wooden  shoes,  and  idolatries 
in  general ; and  hiccupped  Church  and  State 
1 with  fervor. 

But  Swift?  His  mind  had  had  a different 
schooling,  and  possessed  a very  different  logi- 
cal power.  He  was  not  bred  up  in  a tipsy 
guardroom,  and  did  not  learn  to  reason  in  a 
Covent  Garden  tavern.  lie  could  conduct  an 
argument  from  beginning  to  end.  He  could 
i see  forward  with  a fatal  clearness.  In  his 
old  age,  looking  at  the  44  Tale  of  a Tub,” 
when  he  said,  44  Good  God,  what  a genius 
I had  when  I wrote  that  book  ! ” I think  he 
was  admiring,  not  the  genius,  but  the  conse- 
quences to  which  the  genius  had  brought  him, 
— a vast  genius,  a magnificent  genius,  a 
genius  wonderfully  bright,  and  dazzling,  and 
strong,  — to  seize,  to  know,  to  see,  to  flash 
upon  falsehood  and  scorch  it  into  perdition, 
to  penetrate  into  the  hidden  motives,  and 
expose  the  black  thoughts  of  men,  — an 
awful,  an  evil  spirit. 

Ah  man  ! you,  educated  in  Epicurean  Tem- 
ple’s library,  you  whose  friends  were  Pope 
and  St.  John,  — what  made  you  to  swear  to 
fatal  vows,  and  bind  yourself  to  a life-long 
hypocrisy  before  the  Heaven  which  you  adored 
with  such  real  wonder,  humility,  and  rever- 
ence? For  Swift’s  was  a reverent,  was  a 
pious  spirit ; for  Swift  could  love  and  could 
pray.  Through  the  storms  and  tempests  of 
his  furious  mind,  the  stars  of  religion  and 
love  break  out  in  the  blue,  shining  serenely, 


SWIFT. 


31 


though  hidden  by  the  driving  clouds  and  the 
maddened  hurricane  of  his  life. 

It  is  my  belief  that  he  suffered  frightfully 
from  the  consciousness  of  his  own  scepticism, 
and  that  he  had  bent  his  pride  so  far  down 
as  io  put  his  apostasy  out  to  hire.*  The 
paper  left  behind  him,  called  u Thoughts  on 
Religion,”  is  merely  a set  of  excuses  for  not 
professing  disbelief.  He  says  of  his  sermons 
that  he  preached  pamphlets  : they  have  scarce 
a Christian  characteristic ; they  might  be 
preached  from  the  steps  of  a synagogue,  or 
the  floor  of  a mosque,  or  the  box  of  a coffee- 
house almost.  There  is  little  or  no  cant  — 
he  is  too  great  and  too  proud  for  that ; and, 
in  so  far  as  the  badness  of  his  sermons  goes, 
he  is  honest.  But  having  put  that  cassock 
on,  it  poisoned  him  : he  was  strangled  in  his 
bands.  He  goes  through  life,  tearing,  like  a 
man  possessed  with  a devil.  Like  Abudali  in 
the  Arabian  story,  he  is  always  looking  out 
for  the  Fury,  and  knows  that  the  night  will 
come  and  the  inevitable  hag  with  it.  What 
a night,  my  God,  it  was ! what  a lonely 
rage  and  long  agony  — what  a vulture  that 
tore  the  heart  of  that  giant ! f It  is  awful 


*“Mr.  Swift  lived  with  him  [Sir  William  Temple]  some 
time,  but  resolving  to  settle  himself  in  some  way  of  living,  was 
inclined  to  take  orders.  However,  although  his  fortune  was 
very  small,  he  had  a scruple  of  entering  into  the  Church  merely 
for  support.” — Anecdotes  of  the  Family  of  Swift , by  the 
Dean. 

t “ Dr.  Swift  had  a natural  severity  of  face,  which  even  his 
smiies  could  scarce  soften,  or  his  utmost  gayety  render  placid 
and  serene;  but  when  that  sternness  of  visage  was  increased  by 
rage,  it  is  scarce  possible  to  imagine  looks  or  features  that 
carried  in  them  more  terror  and  austerity.”  — Orrery. 


32 


ENGLISH  HUMOBISTS . 


to  think  of  the  great  sufferings  of  this  great 
man.  Through  life  he  always  seems  alone, 
somehow.  Goethe  was  so.  I can’t  fancy 
Shakespeare  otherwise.  The  giants  must  live 
apart.  The  kings  can  have  no  company. 
But  this  man  suffered  so  ; and  deserved  so 
to  suffer.  One  j^ardly  reads  anywhere  of 
such  a pain. 

The  u saeva  indignatio  ” of  which  he  spoke 
as  lacerating  his  heart,  and  which  he  dares  to 
inscribe  on  his  tombstone, — as  if  the  wretch 
who  lay  under  that  stone  waiting  God’s  judg- 
ment had  a right  to  be  angry, — breaks  out 
from  him  in  a thousand  pages  of  his  writing, 
and  tears  and  rends  him.  Against  men  in 
office,  he  having  been  overthrown ; against 
men  in  England,  he  having  lost  his  chance  of 
preferment  there,  the  furious  exile  never  fails 
to  rage  and  curse.  Is  it  fair  to  call  the  fa- 
mous u Drapier’s  Letters  ” patriotism?  They 
are  masterpieces  of  dreadful  humor  and  in- 
vective : they  are  reasoned  logically  enough 
too,  but  the  proposition  is  as  monstrous  and 
fabulous  as  the  Lilliputian  island.  It  is  not 
that  the  grievance  is  so  great,  but  there  is  his 
enemy  — the  assault  is  wonderful  for  its  ac- 
tivity and  terrible  rage.  It  is  Samson,  wTith 
a bone  in  his  hand,  rushing  on  his  enemies 
and  felling  them  : one  admires  not  the  cause 
so  much  as  the  strength,  the  anger,  the  fury  of 
the  champion.  As  is  the  case  with  madmen, 
certain  subjects  provoke  him,  and  awaken 
his  fits  of  wrath.  Marriage  is  one  of  these: 
in  a hundred  passages  in  his  writings  he  rages 


SWIFT. 


33 


against  it ; rages  against  children  ; an  object 
of  constant  satire,  even  more  contemptible  in 
his  eyes  than  a lord’s  chaplain,  is  a poor 
curate  with  a large  family.  The  idea  of  this 
luckless  paternity  never  fails  to  bring  down 
from  him  gibes  and  foul  language.  Could 
Dick  Steele,  or  Goldsmith,  or  Fielding,  in  his 
most  reckless  moment  of  satire,  have  written 
anything  like  the  Dean’s  famous  4 4 Modest 
Proposal”  for  eating  children?  Not  one  of 
these  but  melts  at  the  thoughts  of  childhood, 
fondles  and  caresses  it.  Mr.  Dean  has  no 
such  softness,  and  enters  the  nursery  with  the 
tread  and  gayety  of  an  ogre.*  44 1 have  been 
assured,”  says  he  in  the  44  Modest  Proposal,” 
44  by  a very  knowing  American  of  my  acquaint- 
ance in  London,  that  a young  healthy  child, 
well  nursed,  is,  at  a year  old,  a most  delicious, 
nourishing,  and  wholesome  food,  whether 
stewed,  roasted,  baked,  or  boiled  ; and  I make 
no  doubt  it  will  equally  serve  in  a ragout .” 
And  taking  up  this  pretty  joke,  as  his  way  is, 
he  argues  it  with  perfect  gravity  and  logic. 
He  turns  and  twists  this  subject  in  a score  of 
different  ways  ; he  hashes  it ; and  he  serves 
it  up  cold  ; and  he  garnishes  it ; and  relishes 
it  always.  He  describes  the  little  animal  as 
44  dropped  from  its  dam,”  advising  that  the 
mother  should  let  it  suck  plentifully  in  the 


*“  London,  April  10, 1713. 

“ Lady  Masham’s  eldest  boy  is  very  ill : I doubt  he  will  not 
live;  and  she  stays  at  Kensington  to  nurse  him,  which  vexes  us 
all.  She  is  so  excessively  fond,  it  makes  me  mad.  She  should 
never  leave  the  Queen,  but  leave  everything,  to  stick  to  what  is 
so  much  the  interest  of  the  public,  as  well  as  her  own,  ...”  — 
Journal . 


3 


34 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS . 


last  month,  so  as  to  render  it  plump  and  fat 
for  a good  table  ! 44  A child/’  says  his  Rev- 

erence, 44  will  make  two  dishes  at  an  enter- 
tainment for  friends ; and  when  the  family 
dines  alone,  the  fore  or  hind  quarter  will  make 
a reasonable  dish,”  and  so  on  ; and  the  sub- 
ject being  so  delightful  that  he  can’t  leave  it, 
he  proceeds  to  recommend,  in  place  of  veni- 
son for  squires’  tables,  44  the  bodies  of  young 
lads  and  maidens  not  exceeding  fourteen  or 
under  twelve.”  Amiable  humorist!  laughing 
castigator  of  morals  ! There  was  a process 
well  known  and  practised  in  the  Dean’s  gay 
days ; when  a lout  entered  the  coffee-house, 
the  wags  proceeded  to  what  they  called  44  roast- 
ing ” him.  This  is  roasting  a subject  with  a 
vengeance.  The  Dean  had  a native  genius 
for  it.  As  the  44  Almanach  des  Gourmands” 
says,  u0n  ncut  rotisseur 

And  it  was  not  merely  by  the  sarcastic 
method  that  Swift  exposed  the  unreasonable- 
ness of  loving  and  having  children.  In  “Gul- 
liver” the  folly  of  love  and  marriage  is  urged 
by  graver  arguments  and  advice.  In  the 
famous  Lilliputian  kingdom,  Swift  speaks 
with  approval  of  the  practice  of  instantly 
removing  children  from  their  parents  and 
educating  them  by  the  State ; and  amongst 
his  favorite  horses,  a pair  of  foals  are  stated 
to  be  the  very  utmost  a well-regulated  equine 
couple  would  permit  themselves.  In  fact, 
our  great  satirist  was  of  opinion  that  conjugal 
love  was  unadvisable,  and  illustrated  the 
theory  by  his  own  practice  and  example  — 


SWIFT. 


35 


God  help  him  ! — which  made  him  about  the 
most  wretched  being  in  God’s  world.* 

The  grave  and  logical  conduct  of  an  absurd 
proposition,  as  exemplified  in  the  cannibal 
proposal  just  mentioned,  is  our  author’s  con- 
stant method  through  all  his  works  of  humor. 
Given  a country  of  people  six  inches  or  sixty 
feet  high,  and  by  the  mere  process  of  the  logic, 
a thousand  wonderful  absurdities  are  evolved, 
at  so  many  stages  of  the  calculation.  Turning 
to  the  first  minister  who  waited  behind  him 
with  a white  staff  near  as  tall  as  the  mainmast 
of  the  “Royal  Sovereign,”  the  King  of  l>rob- 
dingnag  observes  how  contemptible  a thing 
human  grandeur  is,  as  represented  by  such  a 
contemptible  little  creature  as  Gulliver.  4 4 The 
Emperor  of  Lilliput’s  features  are  strong  and 
maculine  ” (what  a surprising  humor  there  is 
in  this  description  !)  — - 44  The  Emperor’s  fea- 
tures,” Gulliver  says,  44  are  strong  and  mascu- 
line, with  an  Austrian  lip,  an  arched  nose,  his 
complexion  olive,  his  countenance  erect,  his 
body  and  limbs  well  proportioned,  and  his 
deportment  majestic.  He  is  taller  by  the 
breadth  of  my  nail  than  any  of  his  court, 
which  alone  is  enough  to  strike  an  awe  into 
beholders.” 

What  a surprising  humor  there  is  in  these 
descriptions  ! How  noble  the  satire  is  here  ! 
how  just  and  honest ! How  perfect  the  image  ! 
Mr.  Macaulay  has  quoted  the  charming  lines 
of  the  poet  where  the  king  of  the  pygmies  is 

* “ My  health  is  somewhat  mended,  but  at  best  I have  an 
ill  head  and  an  aching  heart.”—  In  May , 1719. 


36 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS . 


measured  by  the  same  standard.  We  have 
all  read  in  Milton  of  the  spear  that  was  like 
u the  mast  of  some  great  ammiral,”  but  th:se 
images  are  surely  likely  to  come  to  the  comic 
poet  originally.  The  subject  is  before  him. 
He  is  turning  it  in  a thousand  ways.  He  is 
full  of  it.  The  figure  suggests  itself  naturally 
to  him,  and  comes  out  of  his  subject,  as  in 
that  wonderful  passage,  when  Gulliver’s  box 
having  been  dropped  by  the  eagle  into  the  sea, 
and  Gulliver  having  been  received  into  the 
ship’s  cabin,  he  calls  upon  the  crew  to  bring 
the  bax  into  the  cabin,  and  put  it  on  the  table, 
the  cabin  being  only  a quarter  the  size  of  the 
box.  It  is  the  veracity  of  the  blunder  which 
is  so  admirable.  Had  a man  come  from  such 
a country  as  Brobdingnag  he  would  have 
blundered  so. 

But  the  best  stroke  of  humor,  if  there  be  a 
best  in  that  abounding  book,  is  that  where 
Gulliver,  in  the  unpronounceable  country,  de- 
scribes his  parting  from  his  master  the  horse  * 


* Perhaps  the  most  melancholy  satire  in  the  whole  of  the- 
dreadful  book  is  the  description  of  the  very  old  people  in  the 
“ Voyage  to  Laputa.”  At  Lugnag,  Gulliver  hears  of  some 
persons  who  never  die,  called  the  Struldbrugs,  and  expressing  a 
wish  to  become  acquainted  with  men  who  must  have  so  much 
learning  and  experience,  his  colloquist  describes  the  Struldbrugs 
to  him. 

“He  said:  They  commonly  acted  like  mortals,  till  about 
thirty  years  old,  after  which,  by  degrees,  they  grew  melan- 
choly and  dejected,  increasing  in  both  till  they  come  to  four- 
score. This  he  learned  from  their  own  confession  : for  other- 
wise there  not  being  above  two  or  three  of  that  species  born  in 
an  age,  they  were  too  few  to  form  a general  observation  by. 
When  they  came  to  fourscore  years,  which  is  reckoned  the  ex- 
tremity of  living  in  this  country,  they  had  not  only  all  the 
follies  and  infirmities  of  other  old  men,  but  many  more,  which 
arose  from  the  dreadful  prospect  of  never  dying.  They  were 


SWIFT. 


37 


“ I took,”  he  says,  “ a second  leave  of  my 
master,  but  as  I was  going  to  prostrate  myself 
to  kiss  his  hoof,  he  did  me  the  honor  to  raise 
it  gently  to  my  mouth.  I am  not  ignorant 
how  much  I have  been  censured  for  mention- 
ing this  last  particular.  Detractors  are  pleased 
to  think  it  improbable  that  so  illustrious  a 
person  should  descend  to  give  so  great  a mark 


not  onlyopinionative,  peevish,  covetous,  morose,  vain,  talkative, 
but  incapable  of  friendship,  and  dead  to  all  natural  affection 
which  never  descended  below  their  grandchildren.  Envy  and 
impotent  desires  are  their  prevailing  passions.  But  those  ob- 
jects against  which  their  envy  seems  principally  directed,  are 
the  vices  of  the  younger  sort  and  the  deaths  of  the  old.  By 
reflecting  on  the  former,  they  find  themselves  cut  off  from  all 
possibility  of  pleasure;  and  whenever  they  see  a funeral,  they 
lament,  and  repine  that  others  are  gone*  to  a harbor  of  rest,  to 
which  they  themselves  never  can  hope  to  arrive.  They  have  no 
remembrance  of  anything  but  what  they  learned  and  observed 
in  their  youth  and  middle  age,  and  even  that  is  very  imperfect. 
And  for  the  truth  or  particulars  of  any  fact,  it  is  safer  to  depend 
on  common  tradition  than  upon  their  best  recollections.  The 
least  miserable  among  them  appear  to  be  those  who  turn  to  do- 
tage, and  entirely  lose  their  memories ; these  meet  with  more 
pity  and  assistance,  because  they  want  many  bad  qualities  w hich 
abound  in  others. 

“If  a Struldbrug  happen  to  marry  one  of  his  own  kind,  the 
marriage  is  dissolved  of  course,  by  the  courtesy  of  the  kingdom, 
as  soon  as  the  younger  of  the  two  comes  to  be  fourscore.  For 
the  law  thinks  it  a reasonable  indulgence  that  those  who  are 
condemned,  without  any  fault  of  their  ow  n,  to  a perpetual  con- 
tinuance in  the  world,  should  not  have  their  misery  doubled  by 
the  load  of  a wife. 

“As  soon  as  they  have  completed  the  term  of  eighty  years, 
they  are  looked  on  as  dead  in  law' ; their  heirs  immediately  suc- 
ceed to  their  estates,  only  a small  pittance  is  reserved  for  their 
support;  and  the  poor  ones  are  maintained  at  the  public  charge. 
After  that  period,  they  are  held  incapable  of  any  employment 
of  trust  or  profit,  they  cannot  purchase  lands  or  take  leases, 
neither  are  they  allowed  to  be  witnesses  in  any  cause,  either 
civil  or  criminal,  not  even  for  the  decision  of  meers  and  bounds 

“ At  ninety  they  lose  their  teeth  and  hair;  they  have  at  that, 
age  no  distinction  of  taste,  but  eat  and  drink  whatever  they  can 
get  without  relish  or  appetite.  The  diseases  they  were  subject 
to  still  continue,  without  increasing  or  diminishing.  In  talking, 
they  forget  the  common  appellation  of  things,  and  the  names  of 
persons,  even  of  those  who  are  their  nearest  friends  and  rela- 
tions. For  the  same  reason,  they  can  never  amuse  themselves 


38 


ENGLISH  HUM  OBIS  TS. 


of  distinction  to  a creature  so  inferior  as  I. 
Neither  have  I forgotten  how  apt  some  trav- 
ellers are  to  boast  of  extraordinary  favors 
they  have  received.  But  if  these  censurers 
were  better  acquainted  with  the  noble  and 
courteous  disposition  of  the  Houyhnhnms  they 
would  soon  change  their  opinion.” 

The  surprise  here,  the  audacity  of  circum- 
stantial evidence,  the  astounding  gravity  of 


with  reading,  because  their  memory  will  not  serve  to  carry  them 
from  the  beginning  of  a sentence  to  the  end ; and  by  this  defect 
they  arc  deprived  of  the  only  entertainment  whereof  they  might 
otherwise  be  capable. 

“ The  language  of  this  country  being  always  upon  the  flux, 
the  Struldbrugs  of  one  age  do  not  understand  those  of  another; 
neither  are  they  able,  after  two  hundred  years,  to  hold  any  con- 
versation (further  than  by  a few  general  words)  with  their 
neighbors,  the  mortals ; and  thus  they  lie  under  the  disadvan- 
tage of  living  like  foreigners  in  their  own  country. 

“ This  was  the  account  given  me  of  the  Struldbrugs,  as  near 
as  I can  remember.  I afterwards  saw  five  or  six  of  different 
ages,  the  youngest  not  above  two  hundred  years  old,  who  were 
brought  to  me  at  several  times  by  some  of  my  friends;  but  al- 
though they  were  told  ‘that  I was  a great  traveller,  and  had 
seen  all  the  world,’  they  had  not  the  least  curiosity  to  ask  me  a 
question,  only  desired  I would  give  them  slumskudask,  or  a 
token  of  remembrance;  which  is  a modest  way  of  begging,  to 
avoid  the  law,  that  strictly  forbids  it,  because  they  are  provided 
for  by  the  public,  although  indeed  with  a very  scanty  allow- 
ance. 

“They  are  despised  and  hated  by  all  sorts  of  people;  when 
one  of  them  is  born,  it  is  reckoned  ominous,  and  their  birth  is 
recorded  very  particularly;  so  that  you  may  know  their  age 
by  consulting  the  register,  which,  however,  has  not  been  kept 
above  a thousand  years  past,  or  at  least  has  been  destroyed  by 
time  or  public  disturbances.  But  the  usual  way  of  computing 
how  old  they  are,  is  by  asking  them  what  kings  or  great  persons 
they  can  remember,  and  then  consulting  history;  for  infallibly 
the  last  prince  in  their  mind  did  not  begin  his  reign  after  they 
were  fourscore  years  old. 

“They -were  the  most  mortifying  sight  T ever  beheld,  and 
the  women  more  horrible  than  the  men;  besides  the  usual  de- 
formities in  extreme  old  age,  they  acquired  an  additional  ghast- 
liness, in  proportion  to  their  number  of  yenrs,  -which  is  not 
to  be  described ; and  among  half  a dozen,  I soon  distinguished 
which  was  the  eldest,  although  there  was  not  above  a century 
or  two  between  them.”—  Gulliver's  Travels . 


SWIFT. 


39 


the  speaker,  who  is  not  ignorant  how  much  he 
has  been  censured,  the  nature  of  the  favor 
conferred,  and  the  respectful  exultation  at  the 
leceiptof  it,  are  surely  complete : it  is  truth 
topsy-turvy,  entirely  logical  and  absurd. 

As  for  the  humor  and  conduct  of  this  famous 
fable,  I suppose  there  is  no  person  who  reads 
but  must  admire  ; as  for  the  moral,  I think  it 
horrible,  shameful,  unmanly,  blasphemous ; 
and  giant  and  great  as  this  Dean  is,  I say  we 
should  hoot  him.  Some  of  this  audience 
mayn’t  have  read  the  last  part  of  “Gulliver,” 
and  to  such  I would  recall  the  advice  of  the 
venerable  Mr.  Punch  to  persons  about  to 
marry,  and  say,  “Don’t.”  When  Gulliver 
first  lands  among  the  Yahoos,  the  naked  howl- 
ing wretches  clamber  up  trees  and  assault  him, 
and  he  describes  himself  as  “ almost  stifled 
with  the  filth  which  fell  about  him.”  The 
reader  of  the  fourth  part  of  “ Gulliver’s 
Travels  ” is  like  the  hero  himself  in  this  in- 
stance. It  is  Yahoo  language : a monster 
gibbering  shrieks,  and  gnashing  imprecations 
against  mankind  — tearing  down  all  shreds  of 
modesty,  past  all  sense  of  manliness  and 
shame  ; filthy  in  word,  filthy  in  thought,  furi- 
ous, raging,  obscene. 

And  dreadful  it  is  to  think  that  Swift  knew 
the  tendency  of  his  creed  — the  fatal  rocks 
towards  which  iiis  logic  desperately  drifted. 
That  last  part  of  “ Gulliver  ” is  only  a conse- 
quence of  what  has  gone  before  ; and  the  worth- 
lessness of  all  mankind,  the  pettiness,  cruelty, 
pride,  imbecility,  the  general  vanity,  the  fool- 


40 


ENGLISH  II U M OBIS TS. 


ish  pretension,  the  mock  greatness,  the  pom- 
pous dulness,  the  mean  aims,  the  base  suc- 
cesses — all  these  were  present  to  him  ; it  was 
with  the  clin  of  these  curses  of  the  world, 
blasphemies  against  heaven,  shrieking  in  his 
ears,  that  he  began  to  write  his  dreadful  alle- 
gory, of  which  the  meaning  is  that  man  is 
utterly  wicked,  desperate,  and  imbecile,  and 
his  passions  are  so  monstrous,  and  his  boasted 
powers  so  mean,  that  he  is  and  deserves  to  be 
the  slave  of  brutes,  and  ignorance  is  better 
than  his  vaunted  reason.  What  had  this  man 
done?  What  secret  remorse  was  rankling  at 
his  heart?  What  fever  was  boiling  in  him, 
that  he  should  see  all  the  world  bloodshot? 
We  view  the  world  with  our  own  eyes,  each  of 
us  ; and  we  make  from  within  us  the  world  we 
see.  A weary  heart  gets  no  gladness  out  of 
sunshine ; a selfish  man  is  sceptical  about 
friendship,  as  a man  with  no  ear  doesn't  care 
for  music.  A frightful  self-consciousness  it 
must  have  been,  which  looked  on  mankind  so 
darkly  through  those  keen  eyes  of  Swift. 

A remarkable  story  is  told  bv  Scott,  of  De^ 
lany,  who  interrupted  Archbishop  King  and 
Swift  in  a conversation  which  left  the  prelate 
in  tears,  and  from  which  Swift  rushed  away 
with  marks  of  strong  terror  and  agitation  in 
his  countenance,  upon  which  the  Archbishop 
said  to  Delany,  u You  have  just  met  the  most 
unhappy  man  on  earth  ; but  on  the  subject  of 
his  wretchedness  you  must  never  ask  a ques- 
tion.” 

The  most  unhappy  man  on  earth  ; — Miser- 


SWIFT. 


41 


rimus  — what  a character  of  him  1 And  at 
this  time  all  the  great  wits  of  England  had 
been  at  his  feet.  All  Ireland  had  shouted  after 
him,  and  worshipped  him  as  a liberator,  a 
savior,  the  greatest  Irish  patriot  and  citizen. 
Dean  Drapier  Bickerstaff  Gulliver  — the  most 
famous  statesmen,  and  the  greatest  poets  of 
his  day,  had  applauded  him,  and  done  him 
homage ; and  at  this  time,  writing  over  to 
Bolingbroke  from  Ireland,  he  says,  u It  is  time 
for  me  to  have  done  with  the  world,  and  so  I 
would  if  I could  get  into  a better  before  I was 
called  into  the  best,  and  not  die  here  in  a rage , 
like  a poisoned  rat  in  a ho7e.” 

We  have  spoken  about  .the  men,  and  Swift’s 
behavior  to  them  ; and  now  it  behooves  us  not 
to  forget  that  there  are  certain  other  persons 
in  the  creation  who  had  rather  intimate  re- 
lations with  the  great  Dean  A Two  women 

* The  name  of  Varina  has  been  thrown  into  the  shade  by 
those  of  the  famous  Stella  and  Vanessa;  but  she  had  a story  of 
her  own  to  tell  about  the  blue  eyes  of  young  Jonathan.  One 
may  say  that  the  book  of  Swift’s  Life  opens  at  places  kept  by 
these  blighted  flowers ! Varina  must  have  a paragraph. 

She  was  a Miss  Jane  Waryng,  sister  to  a college  chum  of  his. 
In  1696,  when  Swift  was  nineteen  years  old,  wo  And  him  writing 
a love-letter  to  her,  beginning,  “ Impatience  is  the  most  insep- 
arable quality  of  a lover.”  But  absence  made  a great  difference 
in  his  feelings;  so,  four  years  afterwards,  the  tone  is  changed, 
lie  writes  again,  a very  curious  letter,  offering  to  marry  her,  and 
putting  the  offer  in  such  a way  that  nobody  could  possibly 
accept  it. 

After  dwelling  on  his  poverty,  etc.,  he  says,  conditionally, 
“I  shall  be  blessed  to  have  you  in  my  arms,  without  regarding 
whether  your  person  be  beautiful  or  your  fortune  large.  Clean- 
liness in  the  first,  and  competency  in  the  second,  is  all  I ask 
for!  ” 

The  editors  do  not  tell  us  what  became  of  Varina  in  life. 
One  would  be  glad  to  know  that  she  met  with  some  worthy 
partner  and  lived  long  enough  to  see  her  little  boys  laughing 
over  Lilliput,  without  any  arriere  pensee  of  a sad  character 
about  the  great  Dean ! 


42 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


whom  he  loved  and  injured  are  known  by  every 
reader  of  books  so  familiarly  that  if  we  had 
seen  them,  or  if  they  had  been  relatives  of 
our  own,  we  scarcely  could  have  known  them 
better.  Who  has  n’t  in  his  mind  an  image  of 
Stella?  Who  does  not  love  her?  Fair  and 
tender  creature  : pure  and  affectionate  heart ! 
Boots  it  to  you,  now  that  you  have  been  at 
rest  for  a hundred  and  twenty  years,  not 
divided  in  death  from  the  cold  heart  which 
caused  yours,  whilst  it  beat,  such  faithful 
pangs  of  love  and  grief  — boots  it  to  you  now, 
that  the  whole  world  loves  and  deplores  you  ? 
Scarce  any  man,  I believe,  ever  thought  of 
that  grave,  that  did  not  cast  a flower  of  pity 
on  it,  and  write  over  it  a sweet  epitaph.  Gen- 
tle lady,  so  lovely,  so  loving,  so  unhappy ! 
you  have  had  countless  champions  ; millions 
of  manly  hearts  mourning  for  you.  From  gen- 
eration to  generation  we  take  up  the  fond 
tradition  of  your  beauty  ; we  watch  and  fol- 
low your  tragedy,  your  bright  morning  love 
and  purity,  your  constancy,  your  grief,  your 
sweet  martyrdom.  We  know  your  legend -by 
heart.  You  are  one  of  the  saints  of  English 
story. 

And  if  Stella’s  love  and  innocence  are 
charming  to  contemplate,  I will  say  that,  in 
spite  of  ill-usage,  in  spite  of  drawbacks,  in 
spite  of  mysterious  separation  and  union,  of 
hope  delayed  and  sickened  heart — in  the 
teeth  of  Vanessa,  and  that  little  episodical 
aberration  which  plunged  Swift  into  such 
woful  pitfalls  and  quagmires  of  amorous  per- 


SWIFT . 


43 


plexity  — in  spite  of  the  verdicts  of  most 
women,  I believe,  who,  as  far  as  my  experi- 
ence and  conversation  go,  generally  take 
Vanessa’s  part  in  the  controversy  — in  spite 
of  the  tears  which  Swift  caused  Stella  to  shed, 
and  the  rocks  and  barriers  which  fate  and 
temper  interposed,  and  which  prevented  the 
pure  course  of  that  true  love  from  running 
smoothly — the  brightest  part  of  Swift’s  story, 
the  pure  star  in  that  dark  and  tempestuous 
life  of  Swift’s,  is  his  love  for  Hester  Johnson. 
It  has  been  my  business,  professionally  of 
course,  to  go  through  a deal  of  sentimental 
reading  in  my  time,  and  to  acquaint  myself  with 
love-making,  as  it  has  been  described  in  various 
languages,  and  at  various  ages  of  the  world  ; 
and  I know  of  nothing  more  manly,  more  ten- 
der, more  exquisitely  touching,  than  some  of 
these  brief  notes,  written  in  what  Swift  calls 
44  his  little  language  ” in  his  journal  to  Stella.*' 
He  writes  to  her  night  and  morning  often.  He 
never  sends  away  a letter  to  her  but  he  begins 
a new  one  on  the  same  day.  He  can’t  bear  to 
let  go  her  kind  little  hand,  as  it  were.  He 
knows  that  she  is  thinking  of  him,  and  long- 

* A sentimental  Champollion  might  find  a good  deal  of  mat- 
ter for  his  art,  in  expounding  the  symbols  of  ihe  “ Little  Lan- 
guage.” Usually,  Stella  is  “ M.  D.,”  but  sometimes  her  com- 
panion, Mrs.  Dingley,  is  included  in  it.  Swift  is  “Presto”; 
also  P.  D.  F.  R.  We  have  “ Good-night,  M.  D. ; Night,  M.  D ; 
Little  M.  D.;  Stellakins;  Pretty  Stella;  Dear,  roguish,  impu- 
dent, pretty  M.  D.”  Every  now  and  then  he  breaks  into  rhyme, 
as  — 

“ I wish  you  both  a merry  New  Year, 

Roast-beef,  mince-pies,  and  good  strong  beer, 

And  me  a share  of  your  good  cheer, 

That  I was  there,  as  you  were  here, 

And  you  are  a little  saucy  dear,” 


44 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS . 


ing  for  him  far  away  in  Dublin  yonder.  He 
takes  her  letters  from  under  his  pillow  and 
talks  to  them,  familiarly,  paternally,  with  fond 
epithets  and  pretty  caresses  — as  he  would 
to  the  sweet  and  artless  creature  who  loved 
him.  “Stay,”  be  writes  one  morning,  — it 
is  the  14th  of  December,  1710, — u Stay, 
I will  answer  some  of  your  letter  this  morn- 
ing in  bed.  Let  me  see.  Come  and  appear, 
little  letter!  Here  I am,  says  he,  and  what 
say  you  to  Stella  this  morning  fresh  and 
fasting?  And  can  Stella  read  this  writing 
without  hurting  her  dear  eyes?”  he  goes  on, 
after  more  kind  prattle  and  fond  whispering. 
The  dear  eyes  shine  clearly  upon  him  then  — 
the  good  angel  of  his  life  is  with  him  and  bless- 
ing him.  Ah,  it  was  a hard  fate  that  wrung 
from  them  so  many  tears,  and  stabbed  piti- 
lessly that  pure  and  tender  bosom.  A hard 
fate  : but  would  she  have  changed  it?  I have 
heard  a woman  say  that  she  would  have  taken 
Swift’s  cruelty  to  have  had  his  tenderness. 
He  had  a sort  of  worship  for  her  whilst  he 
wounded  her.  He  speaks  of  her  after  she- is 
gone ; of  her  wit,  of  her  kindness,  of  her 
grace,  of  her  beauty,  with  a simple  love  and 
reverence  that  are  indescribably  touching  ; in 
contemplation  of  her  goodness  his  hard  heart 
melts  into  pathos  ; liis  cold  rhyme  kindles  and 
glows  into  poetry,  and  he  falls  down  on  his 
knees,  so  to  speak,  before  the  angel  whose  life 
he  had  embittered,  confesses  his  own  wretched- 
ness and  unworthiness,  and  adores  her  with 
cries  of  remorse  and  love  : — 


SWIFT. 


45 


“ When  on  my  sickly  couch  I lay, 

Impatient  both  of  night  and  day, 

And  groaning  in  unmanly  strains, 

Called  every  power  to  ease  my  pains, 

Then  Stella  ran  to  my  relief, 

With  cheerful  face  and  inward  grief, 

And  though  by  heaven’s  severe  decree 
She  suffers  hourly  more  than  me, 

No  cruel  master  could  require 
From  slaves  employed  for  daily  hire, 

What  Stella,  by  her  friendship  warmed, 

With  vigor  and  delight  performed. 

Now,  with  a soft  and  silent  tread, 

Unheard  she  moves  about  my  bed : 

My  sinking  spirits  now  supplies 
With  cordials  in  her  hands  and  eyes. 

Best  pattern  of  true  friends!  beware 
You  pay  too  dearly  for  your  care 
If,  while  your  tenderness  secures 
My  life,  it  must  endanger  yours : 

For  such  a fool  was  never  found 
Who  pulled  a palace  to  the  ground, 

Only  to  have  the  ruins  made 
Materials  for  a house  decayed.” 

One  little  triumph  Stella  had  in  her  life  — 
one  dear  little  piece  of  injustice  was  performed 
in  her  favor,  for  which  I confess,  for  my  part, 
I can’t  help  thanking  fate  and  the  Dean. 
That  other  person  was  sacrificed  to  her  — that 
— that  young  woman,  who  lived  five  doors 
from  Doctor  Swift’s  lodgings  in  Bury  Street, 
and  who  flattered  him,  and  made  love  to  him 
in  such  an  outrageous  manner  — Vanessa  was 
thrown  over. 

Swift  did  not  keep  Stella’s  letters  to  him  in 
reply  to  those  he  wrote  to  her.*  He  kept 


* The  following  passages  are  froTn  a paper  begun  by  Swift 
on  the  evening  of  the  day  of  her  death,  Jan.  28,  1727-8  : — 

“ She  was  sickly  from  her  childhood,  until  about  the  age  of 
fifteen;  but  then  she  grew  into  perfect  health,  and  was  looked 
upon  as  one  of  the  most  beautiful,  graceful,  and  agreeable  young 


46 


English  n imonisfs. 


Bolinbroke’s,  and  Pope’s,  and  Harley’s,  and 
Peterborough’s:  but  Stella  “ very  carefully,” 
the  Lives  say,  kept  Swift’s.  Of  course  : that 
is  the  way  of  the  world  ; and  fo  we  cannot  tell 
what  her  style  was,  or  of  what  sort  were  the 
little  letters  which  the  Doctor  placed  there  at 
night,  and  bade  to  appear  from  under  his  pil- 
low of  a morning.  But  in  Letter  IV.  of  that 
famous  collection  he  describes  his  lodging  in 
Bury  Street,  where  he  has  the  first  floor,  a din- 
ing-room and  bedchamber,  at  eight  shillings  a 

women  in  London  — only  a little  too  fat.  Her  hair  was  blacker 
than  a raven,  and  every  feature  of  her  face  in  perfection. 

“.  . . Properly  speaking” — he  goes  on,  with  a calmness 
which,  under  the  circumstances,  is  terrible — ‘‘she  has  been 
dying  six  months ! . . . 

“ Never  was  any  of  her  sex  born  with  better  gifts  of  the 
mind,  or  who  more  improved  them  by  reading  and  conversation. 

. . . All  of  us  who  had  the  happiness  of  her  friendship  agreed 
unanimously,  that  in  an  afternoon’s  or  evening's  conversation 
she  never  failed  before  we  parted  of  delivering  the  best  thing 
that  was  said  in  the  company.  Some  of  us  have  written  down 
several  of  her  sayings,  or  what  the  French  call  bons  mots , 
wherein  she  excelled  beyond  belief.” 

The  specimens  on  record,  however,  in  the  Dean’s  paper, 
called  “ Bons  Mots  de  Stella,”  scarcely  bear  out  this  last  part  of 
the  panegyric.  But  the  following  prove  her  wit : — 

“ A gentleman  who  had  been  very  silly  and  pert  in  her  com- 
pany, at  last  began  to  grieve  at  remembering  the  loss  of  a child 
lately  dead.  A bishop  sitting  by  comforted  him  — that  he 
should  be  easy,  because  ‘ the  child  was  gone  to  heaven.’  ‘No, 
my  lord,’  said  she;  ‘ that  is  it  which  most  grieves  him,  because 
he  is  sure  never  to  see  his  child  there.’ 

“When  she  was  extremely  ill,  her  physician  said,  ‘ Madam, 
you  are  near  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  but  we  will  endeavor  to  get 
you  up  again.’  She  answered,  ‘ Doctor,  I fear  I shall  be  out  of 
breath  before  I get  up  to  the  top.’ 

“ A very  dirty  clergyman  of  her  acquaintance,  who  affected 
smartness  and  repartees,  was  asked  by  some  of  the  company 
how  his  nails  came  to  be  so  dirty.  He  was  at  a loss;  but  she 
solved  the  difficulty  by  saying,  ‘ The  Doctor’s  nails  grew  dirty 
by  scratching  himself.’ 

“A  Quaker  apothecary  sent  her  a vial,  corked;  it  had  a 
broad  brim,  snd  a label  of  paper  about  its  neck.  ‘ What  is 
that?’  said  she,  ‘my  apothecary’s  son!’  The  ridiculous  re- 
semblance, and  the  suddenness  of  the  question,  set  us  all 
a-laughing.”  — SivifVs  Works,  Scott’s  Ed.,  vol.  ix.  295-6. 


SWIFT. 


47 


Week ; and  in  Letter  VI.  he  says  “ he  has 
visited  a lady  just  come  to  town,”  whose  name 
\ somehow  is  not  mentioned ; and  in  Letter 
Vlir.  he  enters  a query  of  Stella’s,  44  What 
do  you  mean  4 that  boards  near  me,  that  I 
dine  with  now  and  then’?  What  the  deuce! 
You  know  whom  I have  dined  with  every 
day  since  I left  you,  better  than  I do.”  Of 
course  she  does.  Of  course  Swift  has  not 
the  slightest  idea  of  what  she  means.  But 
in  a few  letters  more  it  turns  out  that  the 
Doctor  has  been  to  dine  44  gravely”  with  a 
Mrs.  Vanhomrigh : then  that  he  has  been  to 
44  his  neighbor”:  then  that  he  has  been  un- 
well, and  means  to  dine  for  the  whole  week 
with  his  neighbor ! Stella  was  quite  right  in 
her  previsions.  She  saw  from  the  very  first 
hint,  what  was  going  to  happen ; and  scented 
Vanessa  in  the  air.*  The  rival  is  at  the 
Dean’s  feet.  The  pupil  and  teacher  are  read- 
ing together,  and  drinking  tea  together,  and 
going  to  prayers  together,  and  learning  Latin 
together,  and  conjugating  amo,  amas,  amavi 
together.  The  44  little  language”  is  over  for 
poor  Stella.  By  the  rule  of  grammar  and  the 
course  of  conjugation,  does  n’t  amavi  come 
after  amo  and  amas ? 

*“1  am  so  hot  and  lazy  after  my  morning’s  walk,  that  I 
loitered  at  Mrs.  Vanhorarigh’s,  where  my  best  gown  and  peri- 
wig was,  and  out  of  mere  listlessness  dine  theret  very  often; 
so  I did  to-day.”  — Journal  to  Stella. 

Mrs.  Vanhomrigh,  “ Vanessa’s  ” mother,  was  the  widow  of  a 
Dutch  merchant  who  held  lucrative  appointments  in  King  Wil- 
liam's time.  The  family  settled  in  London  in  1709,  and  had  a 
house  in  Bury  Street,  St.  James’s  — a street  made  notable  by 
such  residents  as  Swift  and  Steele;  and,  in  our  own  time, 
Moore  and  Crabbe. 


48 


ENGLISH  III  ■ MOIHSTS . 


The  loves  of  Cadeiius  and  Vanessa*  you 
may  peruse  in  Cadenus’s  own  poem  on  the 
subject,  and  in  poor  Vanessa’s  vehement  ex- 
postulatory  verses  and  letters  to  him ; she 
adores  him,  implores  him,  admires  him,  thinks 
him  something  godlike,  and  only  prays  to  be 
admitted  to  lie  at  his  feet.f  As  they  are 
bringing  him  home  from  church,  those  divine 
feet  of  Dr.  Swift’s  are  found  pretty  often  in 
Vanessa’s  parlor.  He  likes  to  be  admired  and 
adored.  He  finds  Miss  Vanhomrigh  to  be  a 
woman  of  great  taste  and  spirit,  and  beauty 
and  wit,  and  a fortune  too.  He  sees  her 
every  day ; he  does  not  tell  Stella  about  the 


* “ Vanessa  was  excessively  vain.  The  character  given  of 
her  by  Cadenus  is  line  painting,  but  in  general  fictitious.  She 
was  fond  of  dress;  impatient  to  be  admired;  very  romantic  in 
her  turn  of  mind;  superior,  in  her  own  opinion,  to  all  her  sex; 
full  of  pertness,  gayety,  and  pride;  not  without  some  agreeable 
accomplishments,  but  far  from  being  either  beautiful  or  genteel; 
. . . happy  in  the  thoughts  of  being  reported  Swift’s  concubine, 
but  still  aiming  and  intending  to  be  his  wife.”  — Lord  Orrery. 

t “ You  bid  me  be  easy,  and  you  would  see  me  as  often  as 
you  could.  You  had  better  have  said  as  often  as  you  can  get 
the  better  of  your  inclinations  so  much;  or  as  often  as  you  re- 
member there  was  such  a one  in  the  world.  If  you  continue  to 
treat  me  as  you  do,  you  will  not  be  made  uneasy  by  me  long. 
It  is  impossible  to  describe  what  I have  suffered  since  I saw  you 
last : I am  sure  I could  have  borne  the  rack  much  better  than 
those  killing,  killing  words  of  yours.  Sometimes  I have  re- 
solved to  die  without  seeing  you  more;  but  those  resolves,  to 
your  misfortune,  did  not  last  long;  for  there  is  something  in 
human  nature  that  prompts  one  so  to  find  relief  in  this  world 
I must  give  way  to  it,  and  beg  you  would  see  me,  and  speak 
kindly  to  me;  for  I am  sure  you’d  not  condemn  any  one  to 
suffer  what  1 have  done,  could  you  but  know  it.  The  reason  I 
write  to  you  is,  because  I cannot  tell  it  to  you,  should  I see  you ; 
for  when  I begin  to  complain,  then  you  are  angry,  and  there  is 
something  in  your  looks  so  awful  that  it  strikes  me  dumb.  Oh! 
that  you  may  have  but  so  much  regard  for  me  left  that  this  com- 
plaint may  touch  your  soul  with  pity.  I say  as  little  as  ever  I 
can  ; did  you  but  know  what  I thought,  I am  sure  it  Avould  move 
you  to  forgive  me ; and  believe  I cannot  help  telling  you  this 
and  live.”  — Vanessa.  (M,  1714.) 


SWIFT. 


43 


business  : until  the  impetuous  Vanessa  becomes 
too  fond  of  him,  until  the  Doctor  is  quite 
frightened  by  the  young  woman’s  ardor,  and 
confounded  hy  her  warmth.  He  wanted  to 
marry  neither  of  them  — that  I believe  was 
the  truth;  but  if  he  had  not  married  Stella, 
Vanessa  would  have  had  him  in  spite  of  him- 
self. When  he  went  back  to  Ireland,  his 
Ariadne,  not  content  to  remain  in  her  isle, 
pursued  the  fugitive  Dean.  In  vain  he  pro- 
tested, he  vowed,  he  soothed,  and  bullied ; 
the  news  of  the  Dean’s  marriage  with  Stella  at 
last  came  to  her,  and  it  killed  her  — she  died 
of  that  passion.* 

And  when  she  died,  and  Stella  heard  that 


* “ If  we  consider  Swift’s  behavior,  so  far  only  as  it  relates 
to  women,  we  shall  find  that  he  looked  upon  them  rather  as 
busts  than  as  whole  figures.”  — Orreby. 

“You  would  have  smiled  to  have  found  his  house  a constant 
seraglio  of  very  virtuous  women,  who  attended  him  from  morn- 
ing till  night.”  — Orrery. 

A correspondent  of  Sir  Walter  Scott’s  furnished  him  with 
the  materials  on  which  to  found  the  following  interesting  pas- 
sage about  Vanessa,  after  she  had  retired  to  cherish  her  passion 
in  retreat : — 

“Marley  Abbey,  near  Celbridge,  where  Miss  Vanhomrigh 
resided,  is  built  much  in  the  form  of  a real  cloister,  especially 
in  its  external  appearance.  An  aged  man  (upwards  of  ninety, 
by  his  own  account)  showed  the  grounds  to  my  correspondent. 
He  was  the  son  of  Mrs.  Vanhomrigh’s  gardener,  and  used  to 
work  w:’th  his  father  in  the  garden  when  a boy.  He  remem- 
bered tne  unfortunate  Vanessa  wrell;  and  his  account  of  her 
corresponded  with  the  usual  description  of  her  person,  especially 
as  to  her  embonpoint.  He  said  she  went  seldom  abroad,  and 
saw  little  company ; her  constant  amusement  was  reading,  or 
walking  in  the  garden.  . . . She  avoided  company,  and  was 
always  melancholy,  save  when  Dean  Swift  was  there,  and  then 
she  seemed  happy.  The  garden  was  to  an  uncommon  degree 
crowded  with  laurels.  The  old  man  said  that  when  Miss  Van- 
homrigh expected  the  Dean,  she  always  planted  with  her  own 
hand  a laurel  or  two  against  his  arrival.  He  showed  her  favor- 
ite seat,  still  called  ‘ Vanessa’s  bower.’  Three  or  four  trees 
and  some  laurels  indicate  the  spot.  . . . There  were  two  seats 
and  a rude  table  within  the  bower,  the  opening  of  which  com- 
manded a view  of  the  Liffey.  . . . Iu  this  sequestered  spot, 


50 


ENGLISH  HUMOBISTS. 


Swift  had  written  beautifully  regarding  her, 
“ That  doesn’t  surprise  me,”  said  Mrs.  Stella, 
u for  we  all  know  the  Dean  could  write  beau- 
tifully about  a broomstick.”  A woman — a 
true  woman  ! Would  you  have  had  one  of 
them  forgive  the  other? 

In  a note  in  his  biography,  Scott  says  that 


according  to  the  old  gardener’s  account,  the  Dean  and  Vanessa 
used  Often  to  sit,  with  books  and  writing  materials  on  the  table 
before  them.”  — Scott’s  Swift , vol.  i.  pip.  246-7. 

“ . . . But  Miss  Vanhonirigh,  irritated  at  the  situation  in 
which  she  found  herself,  determined  on  bringing  to  a crisis 
those  expectations  of  a union  with  the  object  of  her  affections, 
to  the  hope  of  which  she  had  clung  amid  every  vicissitude  of  his 
Conduct  towards  her.  The  most  probable  bar  was  his  undefined 
connection  with  Mrs.  Johnson,  which,  as  it  must  have  been 
perfectly  known  to  her,  had,  doubtless,  long  excited  her  secret 
jealousy,  although  only  a single  hint  to  that  purpose  is  to  be 
found  in  their  correspondence,  and  that  so  early  as  1713,  when 
she  writes  to  him,  — then  in  Ireland,  — ‘If  you  are  very  happy, 
It  is  ill-natured  of  you  not  to  tell  me  so,  except  His  what  is  in- 
consistent with  mme.’  Her  silence  and  patience  under  this  state 
of  uncertainty  for  no  less  than  eight  years,  must  have  been 
partly  owing  to  her  awe  for  Swift,  and  partly,  perhaps,  to  the 
weak  state  of  her  rival’s  health,  which  from  year  to  year 
seemed  to  announce  speedy  dissolution.  At  length,  however, 
Vanessa’s  impatience  prevailed,  and  she  ventured  on  the  deci- 
sive step  of  writing  to  Mrs.  Johnson  herself,  requesting  to  know 
the  nature  of  that  connection.  Stella,  in  reply,  informed  her 
of  her  marriage  with  the  Dean;  and  full  of  the  highest  resent- 
ment against  Swift  for  having  given  another  female  such  a right 
in  him  as  Miss  Vanhomrigh’s  inquiries  implied,  she  sent  to  him 
her  rival’s  letter  of  interrogation,  and,  without  seeing  himL  or 
awaiting  his  reply,  retired  to  the  house  of  Mr.  Ford,  near  Dub- 
lin. Every  reader  knows  the  consequence.  Swift,  in  one  of 
those  paroxysms  of  fury  to  w7hich  he  was  liable,  both  from 
temper  and  disease,  rode  instantly  to  Marley  Abbey.  As  he 
entered  the  apartment,  the  sternness  of  his  countenance,  which 
was  peculiarly  formed  to  express  the  fiercer  passions,  struck 
the  unfortunate  Vanessa  with  such  terror  that  she  could  scarce 
ask  whether  he  would  not  sit  down.  He  answered  by  flinging 
a letter  on  the  table,  and,  instantly  leaving  the  house,  mounted 
his  horse,  and  returned  to  Dublin.  When  Vanessa  opened  the 
packet,  she  only  found  her  own  letter  to  Stella.  It  was  her 
death-warrant.  She  sunk  at  once  under  the  disappointment  of 
the  delayed  yet  cherished  hopes  which  had  so  long  sickened  her 
heart,  and  beneath  the  unrestrained  wrath  of  him  for  whose 
sake  she  had  indulged  them.  How  long  she  survived  this  last, 
interview  is  uncertain,  but  the  time  does  not  seem  to  have  ex 
ceeded  a few  wTeeks.”  — Scott. 


SWIFT. 


51 


his  friend  Doctor  Tuke,  of  Dublin,  has  a lock 
of  Stella’s  hair,  inclosed  in  a paper  by  Swift, 
on  which  are  written,  in  the  Dean’s  hand,  the 
words:  u Only  a woman’s  hair An  in- 
stance, says  Scott,  of  the  Dean’s  desire  to 
veil  his  feelings  under  the  mask  of  cynical 
indifference. 

See  the  various  notions  of  critics ! Do 
those  words  indicate  indifference  or  an  attempt 
to  hide  feeling?  Did  you  ever  hear  or  read 
four  words  more  pathetic?  Only  a woman’s 
hair  ; only  love,  onty  fidelity,  only  purity,  inno- 
cence, beauty  ; only  the  tenderest  heart  in  the 
world  stricken  and  wounded,  and  passed  away 
now  out  of  reach  of  pangs  of  hope  deferred, 
love  insulted,  and  pitiless  desertion : — only 
that  lock  of  hair  left ; and  memory  and  re- 
morse, for  the  guilty,  lonely  wretch,  shudder- 
ing over  the  grave  of  his  victim. 

And  yet  to  have  had  so  much  love,  he  must 
have  given  some.  Treasures  of  wit  and  wis- 
dom, and  tenderness,  too,  must  that  man  have 
had  locked  up  in  the  caverns  of  his  gloomy 
heart,  and  shown  fitfully  to  one  or  two  whom 
he  took  in  there.  But  it  was  not  good  to 
visit  that  place.  People  did  not  remain  there 
long,  and  suffered  for  having  been  there.*  He 
shrank  away  from  all  affections  sooner  or 


* “ M.  Swift  est  Rabelais  dans  son  bon  sens,  et  vivant  en 
bonne  compagnie.  II  n’a  pas,  a la  verite,  la  gaite  du  premier, 
mais  il  a toute  la  finesse,  la  raison,  le  choix,  le  bon  gofit  qui 
manquent  a notre  cure  de  Meudon.  Ses  vers  sont  d’un  gout 
singulier,  et  presque  inimitable ; la  bonne  plaisanterie  est  son 
partage  en  vers  et  en  prose;  mais  pour  le  bien  entendre  il  faut 
faire  un  petit  voyage  dans  son  pays.” —Voltaire,  Lettres  sur 
les  Anglais.  Let.  22. 


52 


ENGLISH  HUMOBISTS. 


later.  Stella  and  Vanessa  both  died  near 
him,  and  away  from  him.  He  had  not  heart 
enough  to  see  them  die.  He  broke  from  his 
fastest  friend,  Sheridan ; he  slunk  away  from 
his  fondest  admirer,  Pope.  His  laugh  jars 
on  one’s  ear  after  seven-score  }Tears.  He  was 
always  alone  — alone  and  gnashing  in  the 
darkness,  except  when  Stella’s  sweet  smile 
came  and  shone  upon  him.  When  that  went, 
silence  and  utter  night  closed  over  him.  An 
immense  genius  : an  awful  downfall  and  ruin. 
So  great  a man  he  seems  to  me,  that  thinking 
of  him  is  like  thinking  of  an  empire  falling. 
We  have  other  great  names  to  mention  ; none 
I think,  however,  so  great  or  so  gloomy. 


CONGREVE  AND  ADDISON. 


A great  number  of  years  ago,  before  the 
passing  of  the  Reform  Bill,  there  existed  at 
Cambridge  a certain  debating  club,  called  the 
kt  Union”  ; and  I remember  that  there  was  a 
tradition  amongst  the  undergraduates  who 
frequented  that  renowned  school  of  oratory, 
that  the  great  leaders  of  the  Opposition  and 
Government  had  their  eyes  upon  the  Univer- 
sity Debasing  Club,  and  that  if  a man  distin- 
guished himself  there  he  ran  some  chance  of 
being  returned  to  Parliament  as  a great  no- 
bleman’s nominee.  So  Jones  of  John’s,  or 
Thomson  of  Trinity,  would  rise  in  their  might, 
and  draping  themselves  in  their  gowns,  rally 
round  the  monarchy,  or  hurl  defiance  at  priests 
and  kings,  with  the  majesty  of  Pitt  or  the  fire 
of  Mirabeau,  fancying  all  the  while  that  the 
great  nobleman’s  emlss  .ry  was  listening  to  the 
debate  from  the  back  benches,  where  he  was 
sitting  with  the  family  seat  in  his  pocket 
Indeed,  the  legend  said  that  one  or  two  young 
Cambridge  men,  orators  of  the  u Union,” 
were  actually  caught  up  thence,  and  carried 
down  to  Cornwall  or  old  Sarum,  and  so  into 
Parliament.  And  many  a young  fellow  de- 
serted the  jogtrot  University  curriculum,  to 
hang  on  in  the  dust  behind  the  fervid  wheels 
of  the  parliamentary  chariot. 

Where,  I have  often  wondered,  were  the 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


sons  of  Peers  and  Members  of  Parliament  in 
Anne’s  and  George’s  time?  Were  they  all 
in  the  army,  or  hunting  in  the  country,  or 
boxing  the  watch?  How  was  it  that  the  young 
gentlemen  from  the  University  got  such  a 
prodigious  number  of  places?  A lad  com- 
posed a neat  copy  of  verses  at  Christchurch  or 
Trinity,  in  which  the  death  of  a great  person- 
age was  bemoaned,  the  French  king  assailed, 
the  Dutch  or  Prince  Eugene  complimented,  or 
the  reverse  ; and  the  party  in  power  was  pres- 
en tl}'  to  provide  for  the  young  poet ; and  a 
commissionership,  or  a post  in  the  Stamps,  or 
the  secretaryship  of  an  Embassy,  or  a clerk- 
ship in  the  Treasury,  came  into  the  bard’s  pos- 
session. A wonderful  fruit-bearing  rod  was 
that  of  Busby’s.  What  have  men  of  letters 
got  in  our  time  ! Think,  not  onljr  of  Swift,  a 
king  fit  to  rule  in  any  time  or  empire,  but 
Addison,  Steele,  Prior,  Tickell,  Congreve, 
John  Gay,  John  Dennis,  and  many  others, 
who  got  public  employment,  and  pretty  little 
pickings  out  of  the  public  purse.*  The  wits 

* The  following  is  a conspectus  of  them  : — 

Addison.  — Commissioner  of  Appeals;  Under  Secretary  of 
State;  Secretary  to  the  Lord  Lieutenant  of  Ire- 
land; Keeper  of  the  Records  in  Ireland;  Lord  of 
Trade;  and  one  of  the  Principal  Secretaries  of 
State,  successively. 

Steele. — Commissioner  of  the  Stamp  Office;  Surveyor  of  the 
Royal  Stables  at  Hampton  Court;  and  Governor 
of  the  Royal  Company  of  Comedians;  Commis- 
sioner of  “ Forfeited  Estates  in  Scotland.” 

Prior. — Secretary  to  the  Embassy  at  the  Hague;  Gentleman  of 
the  Bedchamber  to  King  William ; Secretary  to 
the  Embassy  in  France;  Under  Secretary  of  State  ; 
Ambassador  to  France. 

Tickell. — Under  Secretary  of  State;  Secretary  to  the  Lords 
Justices  of  Ireland. 


CONGREVE  AND  ADDISON 


55 


of  whose  names  we  shall  treat  in  this  lecture 
and  two  following,  all  (save  one)  touched  the 
King’s  coin,  and  had,  at  some  period  of  their 
lives,  a happy  quarter-day  coming  round  for 
them. 

They  all  began  at  school  or  college  in  the 
regular  way,  producing  panegyrics  upon  pub- 
lic characters,  what  were  called  odes  upon 
public  events,  battles,  sieges,  Court  marriages 
and  deaths,  in  which  the  gods  of  Olympus 
and  the  tragic  muse  were  fatigued  with  invo- 
cations, according  to  the  fashion  of  the  time 
in  France  and  in  England.  “Aid  us,  Mars, 
Bacchus,  Apollo,”  cried  Addison,  or  Congreve, 
singing  of  William  or  Marlborough.  “ic- 
courez , chastes  nymphes  da  Permesse ,”  says 
Boileau,  celebrating  the  Grand  Monarch. 
u Des  son^  que  ma  lyre  enfante  marquez-en 
bien  la  cadence,  et  vans,  vents,  faites  silence! 
je  vais  parler  de  Louis ! ” School-boys’  themes 
and  foundation  exercises  are  the  only  relics 
left  now  of  this  scholastic  fashion.  The 
Olympians  are  left  quite  undisturbed  in  their 
mountain.  What  man  of  note,  what  contrib- 
utor to  the  poetry  of  a country  newspaper, 
would  now  think  of  writing  a congratulatory 
ode  on  the  birth  of  the  heir  to  a dukedom,  or 
the  marriage  of  a nobleman?  In  the  past 

Congreve.  — Commissioner  for  licensing  Hackney-Coaches; 

Commissioner  for  Wine  Licenses ; place  in  the 
Pipe  Office;  post  in  the  Custom  House;  Secretary 
of  Jamaica. 

Gay. — Secretary  to  the  Earl  of  Clarendon  (when  Ambassador 
to  Hanover). 

John  Dennis. — A place  in  the  Custom  House. 

“ En  Angleterre  . . . les  lettres  sont  plus  en  honneur 
qu’ici.”—  Voltaire,  lettres  sur  les  Anglais.  Let.  20, 


56 


ENGLISH  HUM 0 LISTS. 


century  the  young  gentlemen  of  the  Univer- 
sities all  exercised  themselves  at  these  queer 
compositions  ; and  some  got  fame,  and  some 
gained  patrons  and  places  for  life,  and  many 
more  took  nothing  by  these  efforts  of  what 
they  were  pleased  to  call  their  muses. 

William  Congreve’s*  Pindaric  Odes  are  still 
to  be  found  in  u Johnson’s  Poets,”  that  now 
unfrequented  poets’-corner,  in  which  so  many 
forgotten  big-wigs  have  a niche  ; but  though 
he  was  also  voted  to  be  one  of  the  greatest 
tragic  poets  of  any  day,  it  was  Congreve’s  wit 
and  humor  which  first  recommended  him  to 
courtly  fortune.  And  it  is  recorded  that  his 
first  play,  the  “Old  Bachelor,”  brought  our 
author  to  the  notice  of  that  great  patron  of 
English  muses,  Charles  Montague  Lord  Hali- 
fax — who,  being  desirous  to  place  so  eminent 
a wit  in  a state  of  ease  and  tranquillity,  in- 
stantly made  him  one  of  the  Commissioners 
for  licensing  hacknej^-coaches,  bestowed  on 
him  soon  after  a place  in  the  Pipe  Office,  and 
likewise  a post  in  the  Custom  House  of  the 
value  of  £600. 

A commissionership  of  hackney-coaches  — 
a post  in  the  Custom  House — a place  in  the 
Pipe  Office,  and  all  for  writing  a comedy! 
Does  n’t  it  sound  like  a fable,  that  place  in  the 
Pipe  Office?  f u Ah,  Vheureux  temps  que  celui 

* He  was  the  soil  of  Colonel  'William  Congreve,  and  grandson 
of  Richard  Congreve,  Esq.,  of  Congreve  and  Stretton,  Stafford- 
shire — a very  ancient  family. 

t “ Pipe.  — Pipa,  in  law,  is  a roll  in  the  Exchequer,  called 
also  the  great  roll. 

“ ripe  Office  is  an  office  in  which  a person  called  the  Clerk 
of  the  Pipe  makes  out  leases  of  Crown  lands,  by  warrant  from 


CONGEE  VE  AND  ADDISON. 


57 


de  ces  fables  /”  Men  of  letters  there  still  be  : 
but  I doubt  whether  any  Pipe  Offices  are  left. 
The  public  has  smoked  them  long  ago. 

Words,  like  men,  pass  current  for  a while 
with  the  public,  and  being  known  everywhere 
abroad,  at  length  take  their  places  in  societ}7 ; 
so  even  the  most  secluded  and  refined  ladies 
here  present  will  have  heard  the  phrase  from 
their  sons  or  brothers  at  school,  and  wfill  per- 
mit me  to  call  William  Congreve,  Esquire,  the 
most  eminent  literary  u swell  ” of  his  age.  In 
my  copy  of  “Johnson’s  Lives,”  Congreve’s 
wig  is  the  tallest,  and  put  on  with  the  jauntiest 
air  of  all  the  laurelled  worthies.  “I  am  the 
great  Mr.  Congreve,”  he  seems  to  say,  looking 
out  from  his  voluminous  curls.  People  called 
him  the  great  Mr.  Congreve.* *  From  the  be- 
ginning of  his  career  until  the  end  everybody 
admired  him.  Having  got  his  education  in 
Ireland,  at  the  same  school  and  college  with 
Swift,  he  came  to  live  in  the  Middle  Temple, 

the  Lord  Treasurer,  or  Commissioners  of  the  Treasury,  or  Chan- 
cedor  of  the  Exchequer. 

“Clerk  of  the  Pipe  makes  up  all  accounts  of  sheriffs,  etc.** 
— Rees,  Cyclopced .,  Art.  Pipe. 

“ I'ipe  Office.  — Spelraan  thinks  so  called,  because  the  papers 
were  kept  in  a large  pipe  or  cask. 

“ ‘ These  be  at  last  brought  into  that  office  of  Her  Majesty’s 
Exchequer,  which  we,  by  a metaphor,  do  call  the  pipe  . . . 
because  the  whole  receipt  is  finally  conveyed  into  it  by  means 
of  divers  small  pipes  or  quills.’  — Bacon,  The  Office  of  Alien- 
ations ” 

[We  are  indebted  to  Richardson’s  Dictionary  for  this  frag- 
ment of  erudition.  But  a modern  man  of  letters  can  know  little 
on  these  points  — by  experience.] 

* It  has  been  observed  that  no  change  of  Ministers  affected 
him  iu  the  least;  nor  was  he  ever  removed  from  any  post  that 
was  given  to  him,  except  to  a better.  His  place  in  the  Custom 

house,  and  his  office  of  Secretary  in  Jamaica,  are  said  to  have 
brought  him  in  upwards  of  twelve  hundred  a year.’,  — Blog . 
Dr  it.,  Art.  Congreve. 


58 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


London,  where  he  luckily  bestowed  no  atten- 
tion to  the  law  ; but  splendidly  frequented  the 
coffee-houses  and  theatres,  and  appeared  in 
the  side-box,  the  tavern,  the  Piazza,  and  the 
Mall,  brilliant,  beautiful,  and  victorious  from 
the  first.  Everybody  acknowledged  the  young 
chieftain.  The  great  Mr.  Dryden*  declared 
that  he  was  equal  to  Shakespeare,  and  be- 
queathed to  him  his  own  undisputed  poetical 
crown,  and  writes  of  him:  66  Mr.  Congreve 
has  done  me  the  favor  to  review  the  c iEneis,’ 
and  compare  my  version  with  the  original.  I 
shall  never  be  ashamed  to  own  that  this  ex- 


* Dryden  addressed  his  “ twelfth  epistle  ” to  “ My  dear  friend, 
Mr.  Congreve,”  on  his  comedy  called  the  “ Double  Dealer,”  in 
which  he  says  : — 

“ Great  Jonson  did  by  strength  of  judgment  please; 

Yet,  doubling  Fletcher’s  force,  he  wants  his  ease. 

In  differing  talents  both  adorned  their  age  : 

One  for  the  study,  t’  other  for  the  stage. 

But  both  to  Congreve  justly  shall  submit, 

One  match’d  in  judgment,  both  o’ermatched  in  wit. 

In  him  all  beauties  of  this  age  we  see,”  etc.,  etc. 

The  “ Double  Dealer,”  however,  was  not  so  palpable  a hit  as  the 
“ Old  Bachelor,”  but,  at  first,  met  with  opposition.  The  critics 
having  fallen  foul  of  it,  our  “ Swell  ” applied  the  scourge  to  that 
presumptuous  body,  in  the  “ Epistle  Dedicatory  ” to  the  “ Right 
Honorable  Charles  Montague.” 

“ I was  conscious,”  said  he,  “ where  a true  critic  might  have 
put  me  upon  my  defence.  I was  prepared  for  the  attack,  . . . 
but  I have  not  heard  anything  said  sufficient  to  provoke  an 
answer.” 

He  goes  on  : — 

“But  there  is  one  thing  at  which  I am  more  concerned  thau 
all  the  false  criticisms  that  are  made  upon  me;  and  that  is,  some 
of  the  ladies  are  offended.  1 am  heartily  sorry  for  it;  for  I de- 
clare, I would  rather  disoblige  all  the  critics  in  the  world  than 
one  of  the  fair  sex.  They  are  concerned  that  I have  represented 
some  women  vicious  and  affected.  How  can  I help  it?  It  is 
the  business  of  a comic  poet  to  paint  the  vices  and  follies  of 
humankind.  . . . I shall  be  very  glad  of  an  opportunity  to  make 
my  compliments  to  those  ladies  who  are  offended.  But  they  can 
no  more  expect  it  in  a comedy,  than  to  be  tickled  by  a surgeon 
when  he  is  letting  their  blood” 


CONGBEVE  AND  ADDISON. 


59 


cellent  young  man  has  showed  me  many  faults 
which  I have  endeavored  to  correct.” 

The  ‘‘excellent  young  man”  was  but  three 
or  four  and  twenty  when  the  great  Dryden  thus 
spoke  of  him  : the  greatest  literary  chief  in 
England,  the  veteran  field-marshal  of  letters, 
himself  the  marked  man  of  all  Europe,  and  the 
centre  of  a school  of  wTits  who  daily  gathered 
round  his  chair  and  tobacco-pipe  at  Wills. 
Pope  dedicated  his  “Iliad”  to  him;*  Swift, 
Addison,  Steele,  all  acknowledged  Congreve’s 
rank,  and  lavish  compliments  upon  him.  Vol- 
taire went  to  wait  upon  him  as  on  one  of  the 
Representatives  of  Literature  ; and  the  man 
who  scarce  prais°s  any  other  living  person  — 
who  flung  abuse  at  Pope,  and  Swift,  and  Steele, 
and  Addison  — the  Grub  Street  Timon,  old 
John  Dennis,!  was  hat  in  hand  to  Mr.  Con- 
greve ; and  said  that  when  he  retired  from  the 
stage,  Comedy  went  with  him. 

Nor  was  lie  less  victorious  elsewhere.  He 
was  admired  in  the  drawing-rooms  as  well  as 
the  coffee-house  ; as  much  beloved  in  the  side- 


*“  Instead  of  endeavoring  to  raise  a vain  monument  to  my- 
self, let  me  leave  behind  me  a memorial  of  my  friendship  with 
one  of  the  most  valuable  men  as  well  as  finest  writers  of  my  age 
and  country  — one  who  has  tried,  and  knows  by  his  own  expe- 
rience, how  hard  an  undertaking  it  is  to  do  justice  to  Homer  — 
and  one  who,  I am  sure,  seriously  rejoices  with  me  at  the  period 
of  my  labors.  To  him,  therefore,  having  brought  this  long  work 
to  a conclusion,  I desire  to  dedicate  it,  and  to  have  the  honor 
and  satisfaction  of  placing  together  in  this  manner  the  names  of 
Mr.  Congreve  and  of  — A.  Pope.”  — Postscript  to  Translation 
of  the  Iliad  of  Homer,  March  25,  1720. 

t “ When  asked  why  he  listened  to  the  praises  of  Dennis,  he 
said  he  had  much  rather  be  flattered  than  abused.  Swift  had  a 
particular  friendship  for  our  author,  and  generously  took  him 
under  his  protection  in  his  high  authoritative  manner. ’’  — Thos, 
Davies,  Dramatic  Miscellanies, 


60 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


box  as  the  on  stage.  He  loved,  and  conquered, 
and  jilted  the  beautiful  Bracegirdle,*  the  hero- 
ine of  all  his  plays,  the  favorite  of  all  the  town 
of  her  day  ; and  the  Duchess  of  Marlborough, 
Marlborough’s  daughter,  had  such  an  admira- 
tion of  him,  that  when  he  died  she  had  an 
ivory  figure  made  to  imitate  him,  I and  a large  i 
wax  doll  with  gouty  feet  to  be  dressed  just  as 
the  great  Congreve’s  gouty  feet  were  dressed 
in  his  great  lifetime.  He  saved  some  money 
by  his  Pipe  Office,  and  his  Custom  House 
office,  and  his  Hackney-Coach  office,  and 
nobly  left  it,  not  to  Bracegirdle,};  who  wanted 


*“  Congreve  was  very  intimate  for  years  with  Mrs.  Brace- 
girdle, and  lived  in  the  same  street,  his  house  very  near  hers, 
until  his  acquaintance  with  the  young  Duchess  of  Marlborough. 
He  then  quitted  that  house.  The  Duchess  showed  me  a diamond 
necklace  (which  Lady  Di.  used  afterwards  to  wear)  that  cost 
seven  thousand  pounds,  which  was  purchased  with  the  money 
Congreve  left  her.  How  much  better  would  it  have  been  to 
have  given  it  to  poor  Mrs.  Bracegirdle.”  — Dr.  Young.  Spence's 
Anecdotes. 

t “ A glass  was  put  in  the  hand  of  the  statue,  which  was 
supposed  to  how  to  her  Grace  and  to  nod  in  approbation  of  what 
she  spoke  to  it.”  — Thos.  Davies,  Dramatic  Miscellanies. 

J The  sum  Congreve  left  Mrs.  Bracegirdle  was  £200,  as 
is  said  in  the  “Dramatic  Miscellanies  ” of  Tom  Davies;  where 
are  some  particulars  abo at  this  ch  .rming  actress  and  beautiful 
woman. 

^he  had  a “lively  aspect,”  says  Tom,  on  the  authority  of 
Cibber,  and  “ such  a glow  of  health  and  cheerfulness  in  her 
countenance,  as  inspired  everybody  with  desire.”  “Scarce  an 
audience  saw  her  that  were  not  half  of  them  her  lovers.” 

Congreve  and  Rowe  courted  her  in  the  persons  of  their 
lovers.  “ In  ‘ Tamerlane,’  liowe  courted  her  Selima,  in  the  per- 
son of  Axalla.  . . . ; Congreve  insinuated  his  addresses  in  his 
Valentine  to  her  Angelica,  in  ‘ Love  for  Love  in  his  Osmyn  to 
her  Almena,  in  the  ‘ Mourning  Bride  and.  lastly,  in  his  Mirabel 
to  her  Millamant,  in  the  ‘ Way  of  the  World.’  Mirabel,  the 
tine  gentleman  of  the  play,  is,  I believe,  not  very  distant  from 
the  real  character  of  Congreve.”—  Dramatic  Miscellanies,  vol. 
iii.  1784. 

She  retired  from  the  stage  when  Mrs.  Oldfield  began  to  be 
the  public  favorite,  She  died  in  1748,  in  the  eighty-fifth  year 
of  her  age, 


CONGREVE  AND  ADDISON. 


61 


it,  but  to  the  Duchess  of  Marlborough,  who 
did  n’t.* 

How  can  I introduce  you  to  that  merry  and 
shameless  Comic  Muse  who  won  him  such  a 
reputation?  Nell  Gwynn’s  servant  fought  the 
other  footman  for  having  called  his  mistress  a 
bad  name ; and  in  like  manner,  and  with 
pretty  like  epithets,  Jeremy  Collier  attacked 
that  godless,  reckless  Jezebel,  the  English 
comedy  of  his  time,  and  called  her  what  Nell 
Gwynn’s  man’s  fellow-servants  called  Nell 
Gwynn’s  man’s  mistress.  The  servants  of 
the  theatre,  Dryden,  Congreve, f and  others, 
defended  themselves  with  the  same  success, 
and  for  the  same  cause  which  set  Nell’s  lackey 


* Johnson  calls  his  legacy  the  “accumulation  of  attentive 
parsimony,  which,”  he  continues,  “ though  to  her  (the  Duchess) 
superfluous  and  useless,  might  have  given  great  assistance  to  the 
ancient  family  from  which  he  descended,  at  that  time,  by  the 
imprudence  of  his  relation,  reduced  to  difficulties  and  distress.” 
— Lives  of  the  Poets. 

file  replied  to  Collier,  in  the  pamphlet  called  “ Amend- 
ments of  Mr.  Collier’s  False  and  Imperfect  Citations,”  etc.  A 
specimen  or  two  are  subjoined  : — 

“ The  greater  part  of  these  examples  which  he  has  produced 
are  only  demonstrations  of  his  own  impurity  : they  only  savor 
of  his  utterance,  and  were  sweet  enough  till  tainted  by  his 
breath. 

“ Where  the  expression  is  unblamable  in  its  own  pure  and 
genuine  signification,  he  enters  into  it,  himself,  like  the  evil 
spirit;  he  possesses  the  innocent  phrase,  and  makes  it  bellow 
forth  his  own  blasphemies. 

“ If  I do  not  return  him  civilities  in  calling  him  names,  it  is 
because  I am  not  very  well  versed  in  his  nomenclatures.  . . . 
I will  only  call  him  Mr.  Collier,  and  that  I will  call  him  as  often 
as  I think  he  shall  deserve  it. 

“ The  corruption  of  a rotten  divine  is  the  generation  of  a 
sour  critic.” 

“Congreve,”  says  Dr.  Johnson,  “ a very  young  man,  elated 
with  success,  and  impatient  of  censure,  assumed  an  air  of  con- 
fidence and  security.  . . . The  dispute  was  protracted  through 
ten  years;  but  at  last  comedy  grew  more  modest,  and  Collier 
lived  to  see  the  reward  of  his  labors  in  the  reformation  of  the 
theatre.”  — Life  of  Congreve. 


62 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


fighting.  She  was  a disreputable,  daringv 
laughing,  painted  French  baggage,  that  Comic 
Muse.  She  came  over  from  the  Continent 
with  Charles  (who  chose  many  more  of  his 
female  friends  there)  at  the  Restoration  — a 
wild,  dishevelled  Lai's,  with  eyes  bright  with 
wit  and  wine  — a saucy  court  favorite  that  sat 
at  the  King’s  knees,  and  laughed  in  his  face, 
and  when  she  showed  her  bold  cheeks  at  her 
chariot  window,  had  some  of  the  noblest  and 
most  famous  people  of  the  land  bowing  round 
her  wheel.  She  was  kind  and  popular  enough, 
that  daring  Comedy,  that  audacious  poor  Nell : 
she  wras  gay  and  generous,  kind,  frank,  as 
such  people  can  afford  to  be : and  the  men 
’who  lived  with  her  and  laughed  with  her  took 
her  pay  and  drank  her  wine,  turned  out  when 
the  Puritans  hooted  her,  to  fight  and  defend 
her.  But  the  jade  was  indefensible,  and  it  is 
pretty  certain  her  servants  knew  it. 

There  is  life  and  dentil  going  on  in  every- 
thing : truth  and  lies  always  at  battle.  Pleas- 
ure is  always  warring  against  self-restraint. 
Doubt  is  always  crying  PsLa ! and  sneering. 
A man  in  life,  a humorist,  in  writing  about 
life,  sways  over  to  one  principle  or  the  other, 
and  laughs  with  the  reverence  for  right  and  the 
love  of  truth  in  his  heart,  or  laughs  at  these 
from  the  other  side.  Didn’t  I tell  you  that 
dancing  was  a serious  business  to  Harlequin? 
I have  read  two  or  three  of  Congreve’s  pla}rs 
over  before  speaking  of  him  ; and  my  feelings 
were  rather  like  those,  which  I dare  say  most 
of  us  here  have  had,  at  Pompeii,  looking  at 


CONGEE  VD  AND  ADDISON'. 


63 


Sallust’s  house  and  the  relics  of  an  orgy : a 
dried  wine-jar  or  two,  a charred  supper-table, 
the  breast  of  a dancing-girl  pressed  against 
the  ashes,  the  laughing  skull  of  a jester : a 
perfect  stillness  round  about,  as  the  cicerone 
twangs  his  moral,  and  the  blue  sky  shines 
calmly  over  the  ruin.  The  Congreve  Muse  is 
dead,  and  her  song  choked  in  Time’s  ashes. 
We  gaze  at  the  skeleton,  and  wonder  at  the 
life  which  once  revelled  in  its  mad  veins.  We 
take  the  skull  up,  and  muse  over  the  frolic  and 
daring*  the  wit,  scorn,  passion,  hope,  desire, 
with  which  that  empty  bowl  once  fermented. 
We  think  of  the  glances  that  allured,  the  tears 
that  melted,  of  the  bright  eyes  that  shone  in 
those  vacant  sockets  ; and  of  lips  whispering 
love,  and  cheeks  dimpling  with  smiles,  that 
once  covered  yon  ghastly  yellow  framework. 
They  used  to  call  those  teeth  pearl  once.  See, 
there ’s  the  cup  she  drank  from,  the  gold  chain 
she  wore  on  her  neck,  the  vase  which  held  the 
rouge  for  her  cheeks,  her  looking-glass,  and 
the  harp  she  used  to  dance  to.  Instead  of  a 
feast  we  find  a gravestone,  and  in  place  of  a 
mistress,  a few  bones  ! 

Reading  in  these  plays  now,  is  like  shutting 
your  ears  and  looking  at  people  dancing. 
What  does  it  mean  ? the  measures,  the  grim- 
aces, the  bowing,  shuffling  and  retreating,  the 
cavalier  seul  advancing  upon  those  ladies  — 
those  ladies  and  men  twirling  round  .-it  the  end 
in  a mad  galop,  after  which  everybody  bows 
and  the  quaint  rite  is  celebrated.  Without  the 
music  we  can’t  understand  that  comic  dance 


64 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


of  the  last  century— its  strange  gravity  and 
gayety,  its  decorum  or  indecorum.  It  has  a 
jargon  of  its  own  quite  unlike  life  ; a sort  of 
moral  of  its  own  quite  unlike  life  too.  I am 
afraid  it ’s  a Heathen  mystery  symbolizing  a 
Pagan  doctrine  ; protesting  — as  the  Pom- 
peians very  likely  were,  assembled  at  their 
theatre  and  laughing  at  their  games ; as 
Sallust  and  his  friends,  and  their  mistresses, 
protested,  crowned  with  flowers,  with  cups  in 
their  hands  — against  the  new,  hard,  ascetic, 
pleasure-hating  doctrine  whose  gaunt  disciples, 
lately  passed  over  from  the  Asian  shores  of 
the  Mediterranean,  were  for  breaking  the  fair 
images  of  Venus  and  flinging  the  altars  of 
Bacchus  down. 

I fancy  poor  Congreve’s  theatre  is  a temple 
of  Pagan  delights,  and  mysteries  not  per- 
mitted except  among  heathens.  I fear  the 
theatre  carries  down  that  ancient  tradition 
and  worship,  as  Masons  have  carried  their 
secret  signs  and  rites  from  temple  to  temple. 
When  the  libertine  hero  carries  off  the  beauty 
in  the  play,  and  the  dotard  is  laughed  to  scorn 
for  having  the  young  wufe : in  the  ballad, 
when  the  poet  bids  his  mistress  to  gather  roses 
while  she  may,  and  warns  her  that  old  Time  is 
still  a-flying  : in  the  ballet,  when  honest  Cory- 
don  courts  Pliidis  under  the  treillage  of  the 
pasteboard  cottage,  and  leers  at  her  over  the 
head  of  grandpapa  in  red  stockings,  who  is 
opportunely  asleep ; and  when  seduced  by 
the  invitations  of  the  rosy  youth  she  comes 
forward  to  the  footlights,  and  they  perform  on 


CONGREVE  AND  ADDISON 


65 


each  other's  tiptoes  that  pas  which  you  all 
know,  and  which  is  only  interrupted  by  old 
grandpapa  awaking  from  his  doze  at  the  paste- 
board chalet  (whither  he  returns  to  take 
another  nap  in  case  the  young  people  get  an 
encore)  : when  Harlequin,  splendid  in  youth, 
strength,  and  agility,  arrayed  in  gold  and  a 
thousand  colors,  springs  over  the  heads  of 
countless  perils,  leaps  down  the  throat  of  be- 
wildered giants,  and,  dauntless  and  splendid, 
dances  danger  down : when  Mr.  Punch,  that 
godless  old  rebel,  breaks  every  law  and  laughs 
at  it  with  odious  triumph,  outwits  his  lawyer, 
bullies  the  beadle,  knocks  his  wife  about  the 
head,  and  hangs  the  hangman  — don't  you  see 
in  the  comedy,  in  the  song,  in  the  dance,  in 
the  ragged  little  Punch’s  puppet-show — the 
Pagan  protest?  Doesn’t  it  seem  as  if  Life 
puts  in  its  plea  and  sings  its  comment  ? Look 
how  the  lovers  walk  and  hold  each  other’s 
hands  and  wdiisper ! Sings  the  chorus  — 
“ There  is  nothing  like  love,  there  is  noth- 
ing like  youth,  there  is  nothing  like  beauty  of 
your  springtime.  Look ! how  old  age  tries 
to  meddle  with  merry  sport ! Beat  him  with 
his  own  crutch,  the  wrinkled  old  dotard ! 
There  is  nothing  like  youth,  there  is  noth- 
ing like  beauty,  there  is  nothing  like  strength. 
Strength  and  valor  win  beauty  and  youth 
Be  brave  and  conquer.  Be  young  and  happy. 
Enjoy,  enjoy,  enjoy ! Would  you  know  the 
Segreto  per  esser  felice?  Here  it  is,  in  a 
smiling  mistress  and  a cup  of  Falernian.” 
As  the  boy  tosses  the  cup  and  sings  his 
5 


66 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS, 


song  — hark  ! what  is  that  chant  coming  nearer 
and  nearer  ? What  is  that  dirge  which  will  dis- 
turb us?  The  lights  of  the  festival  burn  dim 

— the  cheeks  turn  pale  — the  voice  quavers 

— and  the  cup  drops  on  the  floor.  Who ’s 
there?  Death  and  Fate  are  at  the  gate,  and 
they  will  come  in. 

Congreve’s  comic  feast  flares  with  lights, 
and  round  the  table,  emptying  their  flaming- 
bowls  of  drink,  and  exchanging  the  wildest 
jests  and  ribaldry,  sit  men  and  women, 
waited  on  by  rascally  valets  and  attendants  as 
dissolute  as  their  mistresses  — perhaps  the 
very  worst  company  in  the  world.  There 
doesn’t  seem  to  be  a pretence  of  morals.  At 
the  head  of  the  table  sits  Mirabel  or  Belmour 
(dressed  in  the  French  fashion  and  waited  on 
bv  English  imitators  of  Scapin  and  PTontin). 
Their  calling  is  to  be  irresistible,  and  to  con- 
quer everywhere.  Like  the  heroes  of  the 
chivalry  story,  whose  long-winded  loves  and 
combats  they  were  sending  out  of  fashion, 
they  are  always  splendid  and  triumphant — - 
overcome  all  dangers,  vanquish  all  enemies, 
and  win  the  beauty  at  the  end.  Fathers,  hus 
bands,  usurers  are  the  foes  these  champions 
contend  with.  They  are  merciless  in  old  age, 
invariably,  and  the  old  man  plays  the  part  in 
the  dramas  wdiicli  the  wicked  enchanter  or  the 
great  blundering  giant  performs  in  the  chivalry 
tales,  who  threatens  and  grumbles  and  resists 

— a huge  stupid  obstacle  always  overcome  by 
the  knight.  It  is  an  old  man  with  a money- 
box : Sir  Belmour  his  son  or  nephew  spends 


CONGEE  VE  AND  ADDISON 


67 


his  money  and  laughs  at  him.  It  is  an  old 
\ man  with  a young  wife  whom  he  locks  up  : 
Sir  Mirabel  robs  him  of  his  wife,  trips  up  his 
gouty  old  heels  and  leaves  the  old  hunks. 
The  old  fool,  what  business  has  he  to  hoard 
his  money,  or  to  lock  up  blushing  eighteen? 
Money  is  for  youth,  love  is  for  youth,  away 
with  the  old  people.  When  Millamant  is  sixty, 
having  of  course  divorced  the  first  Lady  Milla- 
mant, and  marries  his  friend  Doricourt’s 
granddaughter  out  of  the  nursery  — it  will  be 
his  turn  ; and  young  Belmour  will  make  a fool 
of  him.  All  this  pretty  morality  you  have 
in  the  comedies  of  William  Congreve,  Esq. 
They  are  full  of  wit.  Such  manners  as  he 
observes,  he  observes  with  great  humor ; but 
ah  ! it  ’s  a weary  feast,  that  banquet  of  wit 
where  no  love  is.  It  palls  very  soon  ; sad  in- 
digestions follow  it  and  lonely  blank  headaches 
in  the  morning. 

I can’t  pretend  to  quote  scenes  from  the 
splendid  Congreve’s  plays  * — which  are  unde- 


* The  scene  of  Valentine’s  pretended  madness  in  “ Love  for 
Love  ” is  a splendid  specimen  of  Congreve’s  daring  manner  : — 

Scandal.  And  have  you  given  your  master  a hint  of  their 
plot  upon  him? 

Jeremy.  Yes,  sir;  he  says  he’ll  favor  it,  and  mistake  her 
for  Angelica. 

Scandal.  It  may  make  us  sport. 

Foresight.  Mercy  on  us  ! 

Valentine.  Iluslit — interrupt  me  not  — I’ll  whisper  pre- 
dictions to  thee,  and  thou  shalt  prophesie ; — I am  truth,  and  can 
teach  thy  tongue  a new  trick, — I have  told  thee  what ’s  passed  — 
now  I’ll  tell  what’s  to  come:  — Dost  thou  know  what  will 
happen  to-morrow?  Answer  me  not  — for  I will  tell  thee. 
To-morrow  knaves  will  thrive  thro’  craft,  and  fools  thro’  for- 
tune : and  honesty  will  go  as  it  did,  frost-nipt  in  a summer  suit 
Ask  me  questions  concerning  to-morrow. 

Scandal.  Ask  him,  Mr.  Foresight. 

Foresight.  Pray  what  will  be  done  at  Court? 


68 


ENGLISH  HUMOBISTS . 


niably  bright,  witty,  and  daring  — any  more 
than  I could  ask  you  to  hear  the  dialogue  of  a 

Valentine . Scandal  will  tell  you ; — I am  truth,  I never  come 
there. 

Foresight.  In  the  city? 

Valentine.  Oh,  prayers  will  be  said  in  empty  churches  at 
the  usual  hours.  Yet  you  will  see  such  zealous  faces  behind 
counters  as  if  religion  were  to  be  sold  in  every  shop.  Oh,  things 
will  go  methodically  in  the  city,  the  clocks  will  strike  twelve 
at  noon,  and  the  horn’d  herd  buzz  in  the  Exchange  at  two. 
Husbands  and  wives  will  drive  distinct  trades,  and  care  and 
pleasure  separately  occupy  the  family.  Coffee-houses  will  be 
full  of  smoke  and  stratagem.  And  the  cropt  ’prentice  that 
sweeps  his  master’s  shop  in  the  morning,  may,  ten  to  one,  dirty 
his  sheets  before  night.  But  there  are  two  things  that  you  will 
see  very  strange;  which  are,  wanton  wives  with  their  legs  at 
liberty,  and  tame  cuckolds  with  chains  about  their  necks.  But 
hold,  I must  examine  you  before  I go  further;  you  look  sus- 
piciously. Are  you  a husband? 

Foresight.  1 am  married. 

Valentine.  Poor  creature ! Is  your  wrife  of  Covent-Garden 
Parish? 

Foresight.  No;  St.  Martin’s-in-the-Fields. 

Valentine.  Alas,  poor  man ! his  eyes  are  sunk,  and  his  hands 
shrivelled;  his  legs  dwindled;  and  his  back  bow’d.  Pray,  pray 
for  a metamorphosis — change  thy  shape,  and  shake  off  age; 
get  thee  Medea’s  kettle  and  be  boiled  anew;  come  forth  with 
lab’ring  callous  hands,  and  chine  of  steel,  and  Atlas’  shoulders. 
Let  Taliacotius  trim  the  calves  of  twenty  chairmen,  and  make 
thee  pedestals  to  stand  erect  upon,  and  look  matrimony  in  the 
face.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  That  a man  should  have  a stomach  to  a 
wedding  supper,  when  the  pidgeons  ought  rather  to  be  laid  to 
his  feet ! 11a,  ha,  ha ! 

Foresight.  Ilis  frenzy  is  very  high  now,  Mr.  Scandal. 

Scandal.  I believe  it  is  a spring  tide. 

Foresight.  Very  likely  — truly;  you  understand  these  mat- 
ters. Mr.  Scandal,  I shall  be  very  glad  to  confer  with  you  about 
these  things  he  has  uttered.  His  sayings  are  very  mysterious 
and  hieroglyphic  »1. 

Valentin ?.  Oh!  why  would  Angelica  be  absent  from  my 
eyes  so  long? 

Jeremy.  She ’s  here,  sir. 

Mrs.  Foresight.  Now,  sister? 

Mrs.  Frail.  O Lord!  what  must  I say? 

Scandal.  Humor  him,  madam,  by  all  means. 

Valentine.  Where  is  she?  Oh!  I see  her:  she  comes,  like 
Riches.  Health,  and  Liberty  at  once,  to  a despairing,  starving, 
and  abandoned  wretch.  Oh  welcome,  welcome! 

Mrs.  Frail.  How  d’  ye,  sir?  Can  I serve  you? 

Valentine.  Hark’ee  — I have  a secret  to  tell  you.  Endy- 
mion  and  the  moon  shall  meet  us  on  Mount  Latmos,  and  we  ’ll 
be  married  in  the  dead  of  night.  Bu':  say  not  a word.  Hymen 


CONGREVE  AND  ADDISON  69. 

witty  bargeman  and  a brilliant  fiskwomaa 
exchanging  compliments  at  Billingsgate ; but 


shall  put  his  torch  into  a dark  lanthorn,  that  it  may  be  secret; 
and  Juno  shall  give  her  peacock  poppy-water,  that  he  may  fold 
his  ogling  tail;  and  Argus’s  hundred  eyes  be  shut  — ha!  No- 
body shall  know,  but  Jeremy. 

Mrs.  Frail.  No,  no;  we’ll  keep  it  secret;  it  shall  be  done 
presently. 

Valentine.  The  sooner  the  better.  Jeremy,  come  hither  — 
closer  — that  none  may  overhear  us.  Jeremy,  I can  tell  you 
news : Angelica  is  turned  nun,  and  I am  turning  friar,  and  yet 
we  ’ll  marry  one  another  in  spite  of  the  Pope.  Get  me  a cowl 
and  beads,  that  I may  play  my  part;  for  she’ll  meet  me  two 
hours  hence  in  black  and  white,  and  a long  veil  to  cover  the 
project,  and  we  won’t  see  one  another’s  faces  till  we  have 
done  something  to  be  ashamed  of,  and  then  we  ’ll  blush  once  for 
all.  . . . 


Enter  Tattle. 

Tattle.  Do  you  kuow  me,  Valentine? 

Valentine.  You ! — who  are  you?  No,  I hope  not. 

Tattle.  I am  Jack  Tattle,  your  friend. 

Valentine.  My  friend  ! What  to  do?  I am  no  married  man, 
and  thou  canst  not  lye  with  my  wife ; I am  very  poor,  and  thou 
canst  not  borrow  money  of  me.  Then  what  employment  have  I 
for  a friend? 

Tattle.  Hah  ! A good  open  speaker,  and  not  to  to  be  trusted 
with  a secret. 

Angelica.  Do  you  know  me,  Valentine?  « 

Valentine.  Oh,  very  well. 

Angelica.  Who  am  I? 

Valentine.  You  ’re  a woman,  one  to  whom  Heaven  gave 
beauty  when  it  grafted  roses  on  a brier.  You  are  the  reflection 
of  Heaven  in  a pond;  and  he  that  leaps  at  you  is  sunk.  You 
are  all  white  — a sheet  of  spotless  paper  — when  you  first  are 
born ; but  you  are  to  be  scrawled  and  blotted  by  every  goose’s 
quill.  I know  you;  for  I loved  a woman,  and  loved  her  so  long 
that  I found  out  a strange  thing : I found  out  what  a woman  was 
good  for. 

Tattle.  Ay!  pr’ythee,  what ’s  that? 

Valentine.  Why,  to  keep  a secret. 

Tattle.  O Lord ! 

Valentine.  Oh,  exceeding  good  to  keep  a secret ; for,  though 
she  should  tell,  yet  she  is  not  to  be  believed. 

Tattle.  Hah!  Good  again,  faith. 

Valentine.  I would  have  musick.  Sing  me  the  song  that  I 
like.  — Congreve,  Love  fur  Love. 

There  is  a Mrs.  Nickleby,  of  the  year  1700,  in  Congreve’s 
comedy  of  “ The  Double  Dealer,”  in  whose  character  the 
author  introduces  some  wonderful  traits  of  roguish  satire.  She 
is  practised  on  by  the  gallants  of  the  play,  and  no  more  knows 


TO 


ENGLISH  HTJMOBXSTS. 


some  of  his  verses  — they  were  amongst  the 
most  famous  lyrics  of  the  time,  and  pronounced 

how  to  resist  them  than  any  of  the  ladies  above  quoted  could 
resist  Congreve. 

Lady  Plyant.  Oh  ! reflect  upon  the  horror  of  your  conduct ! 
Offering  to  pervert  me  [the  joke  is  that  the  gentleman  is  pressing 
the  lady  for  her  daughter’s  hand,  not  for  her  own]  — perverting 
me  from  the  road  of  virtue,  in  which  I have  trod  thus  long,  and 
never  made  one  trip  — not  one  faux  pas.  Oh,  consider  it : what 
would  you  have  to  answer  for,  if  you  should  provoke  me  to 
frailty  ! Alas ! humanity  is  feeble,  heaven  knows  ! Very  feeble 
and  unable  to  support  itself. 

Mellefont.  Where  am  I?  Is  it  day?  and  am  I awake? 
Madam  — 

Lady  Plyant.  O Lord,  ask  me  the  question!  I swear  I’ll 
deny  it.  Therefore  don’t  ask  me;  nay,  you  sha’n’t  ask  me,  I 
swear  I ’ll  deny  it.  O Gemini,  you  have  brought  all  the  blood 
into  my  face;  I warrant  I am  as  red  as  a turkey-cock.  O fie, 
cousin  Mellefont! 

Mellefont.  Nay,  madam,  hear  me;  I mean  — 

Lady  Plyant  Hear  you?  No,  no;  I’ll  deny  you  first,  and 
hear  you  afterwards.  For  one  does  not  know  how  one’s  mind 
may  change  upon  hearing  — hearing  is  one  of  the  senses,  and 
all  the  senses  are  fallible.  I won’t  trust  my  honor,  I assure  you ; 
my  honor  is  infallible  and  uncomatable. 

Mellefont.  For  heaven’s  sake,  madam  — 

Lady  Plyant.  Oh,  name  it  no  more.  Bless  me,  how  can 
you  talk  of  heaven,  and  have  so  much  wickedness  in  your  heart? 
May  be,  you  don’t  think  it  a sin.  They  say  some  of  you  gentle- 
men don’t  think  it  a sin ; but  still,  my  honor,  if  it  were  no  sin 
— But,  then,  to  marry  my  daughter  for  the  convenience  of  fre- 
quent opportunities  — I ’ll  never  consent  to  that : as  sure  as  can 
be  I ’ll  break  the  match. 

Mellefont.  Death  and  amazement!  madam,  upon  my 
knees  — 

Lady  Plyant.  Nay,  nay,  rise  up!  come,  you  shall  see  nay 
good-nature.  I know  love  is  powerful,  and  nobody  can  help  his 
passion.  ’T  is  not  your  fault;  nor  I swear  it  is  not  mine.  How 
can  I help  it,  if  I have  charms?  And  how  can  you  help  it,  if 
you  are  made  a captive?  I swear  it  is  pity  it  should  be  a fault; 
but,  my  honor.  Well,  but  your  honor,  too  — but  the  sin! 
Well,  but  the  necessity.  O Lord,  here’s  somebody  coming.  I 
dare  not  stay.  Well,  you  must  consider  of  your  crime,  and 
strive  as  much  as  can  be  against  it  — strive,  be  sure;  but  don’t 
be  raelancholick  — don't  despair;  but  never  think  that  I’ll  grant 
you  anything.  O Lord,  no ; but  be  sure  you  lay  aside  all 
thoughts  of  the  marriage,  for  though  I know  you  don’t  love  Cyn- 
thia, only  as  a blind  to  your  passion  for  me  — yet  it  will  make 
me  jealous.  O Lord,  what  did  I say?  Jealous  ! No,  no,  I can’t 
be  jealous;  for  I must  not  love  you.  Therefore,  don’t  hope;  but 
don’t  despair  neither.  Oh,  they  ’re  coming ; I must  fly.  — The 
Double  Dealer , Act  II.,  Scene  5,  p.  156, 


CONGREVE  AND  ADDISON 


71 


equal  to  Horace  by  his  contemporaries  — may 
give  an  idea  of  his  power,  of  his  grace,  of  his 
daring  manner,  his  magnificence  in  compli- 
ment, an  l his  polished  sarcasm.  He  writes 
as  if  he  was  so  accustomed  to  conquer,  that 
he  has  a poor  opinion  of  his  victims.  Noth- 
ing ’s  new  except  their  faces,  says  he  : u every 
woman  is  the  same.”  He  says  this  in  his  first 
comedy,  which  he  wrote  languidly*  in  illness, 
when  he  was  an  u excellent  young  man.” 
Richelieu  at  eighty  could  have  hardly  said  a 
more  excellent  thing. 

When  he  advances  to  make  one  of  his  con- 
quests, it  is  with  a splendid  gallantry,  in  full 
uniform  and  with  the  fiddles  playing,  like 
Grammont’s  French  dandies  attacking  the 
breach  of  Lerida. 

“ Cease,  cease  to  ask  her  name,”  he  writes 
of  a young  lady  at  the  Wells  at  Tunbridge, 
whom  he  salutes  with  a magnificent  compli- 
ment— 

“ Cease,  cease  to  ask  her  name, 

The  crowned  Muse’s  noblest  theme, 

Whose  glory  by  immortal  fame 
Shall  only  sounded  be. 

But  if  you  long  to  know, 

Then  look  round  yonder  dazzling  row : 

Who  most  does  like  an  angel  show, 

You  may  be  sure ’t  is  she.” 

Here  are  lines  about  another  beauty,  who, 

* “ There  seems  to  be  a strange  affectation  in  authors  of 
appearing  to  have  done  everything  by  chance.  The  ‘ Old 
Bachelor  ’ was  written  for  amusement  in  the  languor  of  conva- 
lescence. Yet  it  is  apparently  composed  with  great  elaborate- 
ness of  dialogue  and  incessant  ambition  of  wit.”  — Johnson, 
Lives  of  the  Poets. 


72 


ENGLISH  HUMOBISTS. 


perhaps  was  not  so  well  pleased  at  the  poet's 
manner  of  celebrating  her  : — 

“ When  Lesbia  first  I saw,  so  heavenly  fair, 

With  eyes  so  bright  and  with  that  awful  air, 

I thought  my  heart  which  durst  so  high  aspire 
As  bold  as  his  who  snatched  celestial  fire. 

“But  soon  as  e’er  the  beauteous  idiot  spoke, 

Forth  from  her  coral  lips  such  folly  broke  : 

Like  balm  the  trickling  nonsense  heal’d  my  wound, 
And  what  her  eyes  enthralled,  her  tongue  unbound.” 

Amoret  is  a cleverer  woman  than  the  lovely 
Lesbia,  but  the  poet  does  not  seem  to  respect 
one  much  more  than  the  other ; and  describes 
both  with  exquisite  satirical  humor : — 

“ Fair  Amoret  is  gone  astray  : 

Pursue  and  seek  her  every  lover. 

I ’ll  tell  the  signs  by  which  you  may 
The  wandering  shepherdess  discover. 

“ Coquet  and  coy  at  once  her  air, 

Both  studied,  though  both  seem  neglected; 
Careless  she  is  with  artful  care, 

Affecting  to  seem  unaffected. 

“ With  skill  her  eyes  dart  every  glance, 

Yet  change  so  soon  you ’d  ne’er  suspect  them, 
For  she ’d  persuade  they  wound  by  chance, 
Though  certain  aim  and  art  direct  them. 

“ She  likes  herself,  yet  others  hates 

For  that  which  in  herself  she  prizes  ; 

And,  while  she  laughs  at  them,  forgets 
She  is  the  thing  that  she  despises.” 

What  could  Amoret  have  done  to  bring  down 
such  shafts  of  ridicule  upon  her?  Could  she 
have  resisted  the  irresistible  Mr.  Congreve? 
Could  anybody?  Could  Sabina,  when  she 


CONGREVE  AND  ADDISON. 


73 


woke  and  heard  such  a bard  singing  under  her 
window?  “ See,”  he  writes  — 

“ See  ! see,  she  wakes  — Sabina  wakes  ! 

And  now  the  sun  begins  to  rise. 

Less  glorious  is  the  morn,  that  breaks 
From  his  bright  beams,  than  her  fair  eyes. 

With  light  united,  day  they  give; 

But  different  fates  ere  night  fulfil : 

How  many  by  his  warmth  will  live  ! 

How  many  wfill  her  coldness  kill ! ” 

Are  you  melted?  Don’t  you  think  him  a 
divine  man?  If  not  touched  by  the  brilliant 
Sabina,  hear  the  devout  Selinda  ; — 

“ Pious  Selinda  goes  to  prayers, 

If  I but  ask  the  favor  ; 

And  yet  the  tender  fool ’s  in  tears, 

When  she  believes  I ’ll  leave  her  : 

Would  I were  free  from  this  restraint, 

Or  else  had  hopes  to  win  her  : 

Would  she  could  make  of  me  a saint, 

Or  I of  her  a sinner  ! ” 

What  a conquering  air  there  is  about  these  ! 
What  an  irresistible  Mr.  Congreve  it  is  ! Sin- 
ner ! of  course  he  will  be  a sinner,  the  delight- 
ful rascal.  Win  her  ! of  course  he  will  win  h r, 
the  victorious  rogue  ! He  knows  he  will : he 
must  — with  such  a grace,  with  such  a fashion, 
with  such  a splendid  embroidered  suit.  You 
see  him  with  red-heeled  shoes  deliciously 
turned  out,  passing  a fair  jewelled  hand 
through  his  dishevelled  periwig,  and  deliver- 
ing a killing  ogle  along  with  his  scented  billet. 
And  Sabina?  What  a comparison  that  is 
between  the  nympli  and  the  sun  ! The  sun 
gives  Sabina  the  pas , and  does  not  venture  to 


74 


ENGLISH  HUMOBISTS. 


rise  before  her  ladyship : the  morn’s  bright 
beams  are  less  glorious  than  her  fair  eyes: 
but  before  night  everybody  will  be  frozen  by 
her  glances  : everybody  but  one  lucky  rogue 
who  shall  be  nameless.  Louis  Quatorze  in  all 
his  glory  is  hardly  more  splendid  than  our 
Phoebus  Apollo  of  the  Mall  and  Spring  Gar- 
dens.* 

When  Voltaire  came  to  visit  the  great  Con- 
greve, the  latter  rather  affected  to  despise  his 
literary  reputation,  and  in  this  perhaps  the 
great  Congreve  was  not  far  wrong. f A touch 
of  Steele’s  tenderness  is  worth  all  his  finery ; 
a flash  of  Swift’s  lightning,  a beam  of  Addi- 
son’s pure  sunshine,  and  his  tawdry  playhouse 


*“  Among:  those  by  whom  it  (‘Will’s’)  was  frequented* 
Southerne  and  Congreve  were  principally  distinguished  by 
Dryden’s  friendship.  . . . But  Cougreve  seems  to  have  gained 
yet  farther  than  Southerne  upon  Dryden’s  friendship.  He  was 
introduced  to  him  by  his  first  play,  the  celebrated  ‘ Old  Bach- 
elor,’ being  put  into  the  poet’s  hands  to  be  revised.  Dryden, 
after  making  a few  alterations  to  fit  it  for  the  stage,  returned  it 
to  the  author  with  the  high  and  just  commendation,  that  it  was 
the  best  first  play  he  had  ever  seen.”  — Scott’s  Dryden,  vol.  i, 
p.  370. 

fit  was  in  Surrey  Street,  S rand  (where  he  afterwards  died), 
that  Voltaire  visited  him,  in  the  decline  of  his  life. 

The  anecdote  relating  to  his  saying  that  he  wished  “ to  be 
visited  on  no  other  footing  than  as  a gentleman  who  led  a life 
of  plainness  and  simplicity,”  is  common  to  all  writers  on  the 
subject  of  Congreve,  and  appears  in  the  English  version  of  Vol- 
taire’s “ Letters  concerning  the  English  Nation,”  published  in 
London,  1733,  as  also  in  Goldsmith’s  “Memoir  of  Voltaire.” 
But  it  is  worthy  of  remark,  that  it  does  not  appear  in  the  text 
of  the  Letters  in  the  edition  of  Voltaire’s  “ CEuvres  Completes  ” 
in  the  “Pantheon  Lifct<§raire.”  Vol.  v.  of  his  works.  (Paris, 
1837.) 

“ Celui  de  tous  les  Anglais  qui  a porte  le  plus  loin  la  gloire 
du  theatre  comique  est  feu  M.  Congreve.  11  n’a  fait  que  peu 
de  pieces,  mais  toutes  sont  excellentes  dans  leur  genre.  . . . 
Vous  y voyez  partout  le  langage  des  honnetes  gens  avec  des 
actions  de  fripon;  ce  qui  prouve  qu’il  connaissait  bien  son 
monde,  et  qu’il  vivait  dans  ce  qu’on  appelle  la  bonne  com- 
j>agnie.”  — Voltaire,  Lettres  sur  les  Anglais.  Let.  19. 


CONGE  EVE  AND  ADDISON. 


75 


taper  is  invisible.  But  the  ladies  loved  him, 
and  he  was  undoubtedly  a pretty  fellow.* 

We  have  seen  in  Swift  a humorous  phi- 
losopher, whose  truth  frightens  one,  and  whose 
laughter  makes  one  melancholy.  We  have 
had  in  Congreve  a humorous  observer  of 
another  school,  to  whom  the  world  seems  to 
have  no  morals  at  all,  and  whose  ghastly  doc- 
trine seems  to  be  that  we  should  eat,  drink, 
and  be  merry  when  we  can,  and  go  to  the 
deuce  (if  there  be  a deuce)  when  the  time 
comes.  We  come  now  to  a humor  that  flows 
from  quite  a different  heart  and  spirit  — a wit 


* On  the  death  of  Queen  Mary  he  published  a Pastoral  — 
“The  Mourning  Muse  of  Alexis  ” Alexis  and  Menalcas  sing 
alternately  iu  the  orthodox  way.  The  queen  is  called  Pastora. 

“ I mourn  Pastora  dead,  let  Albion  mourn, 

And  sable  clouds  her  chalky  cliffs  adorn,” 

says  Alexis.  Among  other  phenomena,  we  learn  that  — 

“With  their  sharp  nails  themselves  the  Satyrs  wound, 

And  tug  their  shaggy  beards,  and  bite  with  grief  the  ground  ” — 

(a  degree  of  sensibility  not  always  found  in  the  Satyrs  of  that 
period)  . . . It  continues  : — 

“ Lord  of  these  woods  and  wide  extended  plains, 

Stretch’d  on  the  ground  and  close  to  earth  his  face, 
Scalding  with  tears  the  already  faded  grass. 


To  dust  must  all  that  Heavenly  beauty  come? 

And  must  Pastora  moulder  in  the  tomb? 

Ah  Death ! more  fierce  and  unrelenting  far 
Than  wildest  wolves  or  savage  tigers  are! 

With  lambs  and  sheep  their  hungers  are  appeased, 

But  ravenous  Death  the  shepherdess  has  seized.” 

This  statement  that  a woif  eats  but  a sheep,  whilst  Death  eats  a 
shepherdess  — that  figure  of  the  “Great  Shepherd”  lying 
speechless  on  his  stomach,  in  a state  of  despair  which  neither 
winds  nor  floods  nor  air  can  exhibit  — are  to  be  remembered  in 
poetry  surely;  and  this  style  was  admired  in  its  time  by  the 
admirers  of  the  great  Congreve ! 

In  the  “ Tears  of  Amaryllis  for  Amyntas  ’’  (the  young  Lord 


76 


EXGLISH  IIUMOBlSTS. 


that  makes  us  laugh  and  leaves  us  good  and 
happy  ; to  one  of  the  kindest  benefactors  that 
society  has  ever  had ; and  I believe  you  have 
divined  already  that  I am  about  to  mention 
Addison’s  honored  name. 

From  reading  over  his  writings,  and  the 


Blandford,  the  great  Duke  of  Marlborough’s  only  son),  Amaryl- 
lis represents  Sarah  Duchess! 

Tne  tigers  and  wolves,  nature  and  motion,  rivers  and  echoes, 
come  into  work  here  again.  At  the  sight  of  her  grief  — 

“Tigers  and  wolves  their  wonted  rage  forego, 

And  dumb  distress  and  new  compassion  show, 

Nature  herself  attentive  silence  kept, 

And  motion  seemed  suspended  while  she  wept!  ” 

And  Pope  dedicated  the  “Iliad”  to  the  author  of  these  lines, 
and  Dryden,wrote  to  him  in  his  great  hand  : — 

“ Time,  place,  and  action  may  with  pains  be  wrought, 

But  Genius  must  be  born  and  never  can  be  taught. 

This  is  your  portion,  this  your  native  store; 

Heaven,  that  but  once  was  prodigal  before, 

To  Shakespeare  gave  as  much,  she  could  not  give  him  more. 

Maintain  your  Post : that ’s  all  the  fame  you  need, 

For ’t  is  impossible  you  should  proceed; 

Already  I am  worn  with  cares  and  age, 

And  just  abandoning  th’  ungrateful  stage  : 

Unprofitably  kept  at  Heaven’s  ex  pence, 

I live  a Rent-charge  upon  Providence  : 

But  you,  whom  every  Muse  and  Grace  adorn, 

Whom  I foresee  to  better  fortune  born, 

Be  kind  to  my  remains,  and  oh ! defend 
Against  your  Judgment  your  departed  Friend! 

Let  not  the  insulting  Foe  my  Fame  pursue; 

But  shade  those  Lawrels  which  descend  to  You  : 

And  take  for  Tribute  what  these  Lines  express; 

You  merit  more,  nor  could  my  Love  do  less.” 

This  is  a very  different  manner  of  welcome  to  that  of  our  own 
day.  In  Shadwell,  Higgons,  Congreve,  and  the  comic  authors  of 
their  time,  when  gentlemen  meet  they  fall  into  each  other’s 
arms,  with  “ Jack,  Jack,  I must  buss  thee  ” ; or,  “ Fore  George, 
Harry,  I must  kiss  thee,  lad.”  And  in  a similar  manner  the  poets 
saluted  their  brethren.  Literary  gentlemen  do  not  kiss  now;  I 
wonder  if  they  love  each  other  better? 

Steele  calls  Congreve  “Great  Sir”  and  “Great  Author”; 
says  “ Well  dressed  barbarians  knew  his  awful  name/’  and  ad. 
dresses  him  as  if  he  were  a prince;  and  speaks  of  “ Pastora  ” ae 
one  of  the  most  famous  tragic  compositions. 


CONGREVE  AND  ADDISON  77 

biographies  which  we  have  of  him,  amongst 
which  the  famous  article  in  the  Edinburgh 
Review  * may  be  cited  as  a magnificent  statue 
of  the  great  writer  and  moralist  of  the  last 
age,  raised  by  the  love  and  the  marvellous 
skill  and  genius  of  one  of  the  most  illustrious 
artists  of  our  own  ; looking  at  that  calm,  fair 
face,  and  clear  countenance,  those  chiselled 
features  pure  and  cold,  I can’t  but  fancy 
that  this  great  man  — in  this  respect,  like 
him  of  whom  we  spoke  in  the  last  lecture  — 
was  also  one  of  the  lonely  ones  of  the  world. 
Such  men  have  very  few  equals,  and  they 
don’t  herd  with  those.  It  is  in  the  nature 
of  such  lords  of  intellect  to  be  solitary  — they 
are  in  the  world,  but  not  of  it  ; and  our 
minor  struggles,  brawls,  successes,  pass  under 
them. 

Kind,  just,  serene,  impartial,  his  fortitude 
not  tried  beyond  eas}7  endurance,  his  affec- 
tions not  much  used,  for  his  books  were  his 
family,  and  his  society  was  in  public  ; admira- 


*“  To  Addison  himself  we  are  bound  by  a sentiment  much 
affection  as  any  sentiment  can  be  which  is  inspired  by  one  who 
has  been  sleeping  a hundred  and  twenty  years  in  Westminster 
Abbey.  . . . After  full  inquiry  and  impartial  reflection  we  have 
long  been  convinced  that  he  deserved  as  much  love  and  esteem 
as  can  justly  be  claimed  by  any  of  our  infirm  and  erring  race.” 
— Macaulay. 

“ Many  who  praise  virtue  do  no  more  than  praise  it.  Yet  it 
is  reasonable  to  believe  that  Addison's  profession  and  practice 
were  at  no  great  variance;  since,  amidst  that  storm  of  faction 
in  which  most  of  his  life  was  passed,  though  his  station  made 
him  conspicuous,  and  his  activity  made  him  formidable,  the 
character  given  him  by  his  friends  was  never  contradicted  by 
his  enemies.  Of  those  with  whom  interest  or  opinion  united 
him,  he  had  not  only  the  esteem  but  the  kindness;  and  of 
others  whom  the  violence  of  opposition  drove  against  him, 
though  he  might  lose  the  love,  he  retained  the  reverence.”  — 
<tqhnson. 


78 


ENGLISH  MEMO  El  STS. 


blv  wiser,  wittier,  calmer,  and  more  instructed 
than  almost  every  man  with  whom  he  met, 
how  could  Addison  suffer,  desire,  admire, 
feel  much?  I may  expect  a child  to  admire 
me  for  being  taller  or  writing  more  cleverly 
than  she  ; but  how  can  I ask  my  superior  to 
say  that  I am  a wonder  when  he  knows  better 
than  I ? In  Addison’s  days  you  could  scarcely 
show  him  a literary  performance,  a sermon, 
or  a poem,  or  a piece  of  literary  criticism, 
but  he  felt  he  could  do  better.  "His  justice 
must  have  made  him  indifferent.  He  didn’t^ 
praise,  because  he  measured  his  compeers  by 
a higher  standard  than  common  people  have.* 
How  was  he  who  was  so  tall  to  look  up  to  any 
but  tbe  loftiest  genius?  He  must  have  stooped 
to  put  himself  on  a level  with  most  men.  By 
that  profusion  of  graciousness  and  smiles  with 
which  Goethe  or  Scott,  for  instance,  greeted 
almost  every  literary  beginner,  every  small 
literary  adventurer  who  came  to  his  court  and 
went  away  charmed  from  the  great  king’s  audi- 
ence, and  cuddling  to  his  heart  the  compliment 
which  his  literary  majesty  had  paid  him  — each 
of  the  two  good-natured  potentates  of  letters 
brought  their  star  and  riband  into  discredit. 
Everybody  had  his  majesty’s  orders.  Every- 
body had  his  majesty’s  cheap  portrait,  on  a 
box  surrounded  by  diamonds  worth  twopence 
apiece.  A very  great  and  just  and  wise  man 

* “ Addison  was  perfect  good  company  with  intimates,  and 
had  something  more  charming  in  his  conversation  than  I ever 
knew  in  any  other  man  f hut  with  any  mixture  of  strangers,  and 
sometimes  only  with  one,  he  seemed  to  preserve  his  dignity 
much,  with  a stiff  sort  of  silence.”—  Pope.  Spence's  Anecdotes. 


CONG  JR  EVE  AND  ADDISON 


79 


| ought  not  to  praise  indiscriminately,  but  give 

I his  idea  of  the  truth.  Addison  praises  the 
ingenious  Mr.  Pinkethman  : Addison  praises 
the  ingenious  Mr.  Doggett,  the  actor,  whose 
benefit  is  coming  off  that  night : Addison 
praises  Don  Saltero : Addison  praises  Milton 
with  all  his  heart,  bends  his  knee  and  frankly 
pays  homage  to  that  imperial  genius.*  But 
between  those  degrees  of  his  men  his  praise  is 
very  scanty.  I don’t  think  the  great  Mr.  Ad- 
dison liked  young  Mr.  Pope,  the  Papist,  much  ; 
I don’t  think  he  abused  him.  But  when  Mr. 
Addison’s  men  abused  Mr.  Pope,  I don’t  think 
Addison  took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth  to  con- 
tradict them.f 

Addison’s  father  was  a clergyman  of  good 
repute  in  Wiltshire,  and  rose  in  the  church.  J 
His  famous  son  never  lost  his  clerical  training 
and  scholastic  gravity ,.  and  was  called  “a 

* “ Milton’s  chief  talent,  and  indeed  his  distinguishing  excel 
lence,  lies  in  the  sublimity  of  his  thoughts.  There  are  others  of 
the  moderns  who  rival  him  in  every  other  part  of  poetry ; but  in 
the  greatness  of  his  sentiments  he  triumphs  over  all  the  poets, 
both  modern  and  ancient,  Homer  only  excepted.  It  is  impossi- 
ble for  the  imagination  of  man  to  distend  itself  with  greater 
ideas  than  those  which  he  has  laid  together  in  his  first,  second, 
and  sixth  books.”  — Spectator,  No.  279. 

“ If  I were  to  name  a poet  that  is  a perfect  master  in  all  these 
arts  of  working  on  the  imagination,  I think  Milton  may  pass  for 
one.”  — Ibid.,  No.  417. 

These  famous  papers  appeared  in  each  Saturday’s  Spectator, 
from  Jan.  19  to  May  3,  ]712.  Beside  his  services  to  Milton,  we 
liiay  place  those  he  did  to  sacred  music. 

t “ Addison  was  very  kind  to  me  at  first,  but  my  bitter 
enemy  afterwards.”  — Pope.  Spence's  Anecdotes. 

“•Leave  him  as  soon  as  you  can,’  said  Addison  to  me, 
speaking  of  Pope ; ‘ be  will  certainly  play  you  some  devilish  trick 
else:  he  has  an  appetite  to  satire.’”  — Lady  Wortley  Mon- 
tagu. Spence's  Anecdotes. 

| Lancelot  Addison,  his  father,  was  the  son  of  another  Lan- 
celot Addison,  a clergyman  in  Westmoreland.  He  became  Dean 
of  Lichfield  and  Archdeacon  of  Coventry. 


80 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS . 


parson  in  a tye-wig,”  * in  London  afterwards, 
at  a time  when  tye-wigs  were  only  worn  by  the 
laity,  and  the  fathers  of  theology  did  not  think 
it  decent  to  appear  except  in  a full  bottom. 
Having  been  at  school  at  Salisbury,  and  the 
Charterhouse,  in  1687,  when  he  was  fifteen 
years  old,  he  went  to  Queen’s  College,  Oxford, 
where  he  speedily  began  to  distinguish  himself 
by  the  making  of  Latin  verses.  The  beautiful 
and  fanciful  poem  of  “ The  Pigmies  and  the 
Cranes  ” is  still  read  by  lovers  of  that  sort  of 
exercise  ; and  verses  are  extant  in  honor  of 
King  William,  b}^  which  it  appears  that  it  was 
the  loyal  youth’s  custom  to  toast  that  sovereign 
in  bumpers  of  purple  Lyse  us ; many  more 
works  are  in  the  Collection,  including  one  on 
the  Peace  of  Ryswiek,  in  1697,  which  was  so 
good  that  Montague  got  him  a pension  of  £300 
a year,  on  which  Addison  set  out  on  his  travels. 


* “The  remark  of  Mandeville,  who,  when  he  had  passed  an 
evening  in  his  company,  declared  that  he  was  ‘ a parson  in  a tye* 
wig,’  can  detract  little  from  his  character.  He  was  always  re- 
served to  strangers,  and  was  not  incited  to  uncommon  freedom 
by  a character  like  that  of  Mandeville.”  — Johnson,  Lives  of 
the  Poets . 

“Old  Jacob  Tonson  did  not  like  Mr.  Addison:  he  had  a 
quarrel  with  him,  and,  after  his  quitting  the  secretaryship,  used 
frequently  to  say  of  him  : ‘ One  day  or  other  you  ’ll  see  that  man 
a bishop;  I’m  sure  he  looks  that  way;  and  indeed,  I ever 
thought  him  a priest  in  his  heart.’”  — Pope.  Spence's  Anec- 
dotes. 

“Mr.  Addison  stayed  above  a year  at  Blois.  He  would  rise 
as  earl}’-  as  between  two  and  three  in  the  height  of  summer,  and 
lie  abed  till  between  eleven  and  twelve  in  the  depth  of  winter. 
He  was  untalkative  whilst  here,  and  often  thoughtful;  some- 
times so  lost  in  thought,  that  I have  come  into  his  room  and 
stayed  five  minutes  there  before  he  has  known  anything  of  it. 
He  had  his  masters  generally  at  supper  with  him ; kept  very  lit- 
tle company  besides;  and  had  no  amour  that  I know  of;  and  I 
think  I should  have  known  it  if  he  had  had  any.”  — Abb£  Phil- 
ippeaux  of  Blois.  Spence's  Anecdotes. 


CONGREVE  AND  ADDISON 


8i 


I 


During  his  ten  years  at  Oxford,  Addison 
had  deeply  imbued  himself  with  the  Latin 
poetical  literature,  and  had  these  poets  at  his 
fingers’  ends  when  he  travelled  in  Italy. * His 
patron  went  out  of  office,  and  his  pension  was 
unpaid : and  hearing  that  this  great  scholar, 
now  eminent  and  known  to  the  literati  of 
Europe  (the  great  Boileau,|  upon  perusal  of 
Mr.  Addison’s  elegant  hexameters,  was  first 
made  aware  that  England  was  not  altogether 
a barbarous  nation), — hearing  that  the  cele- 
brated Mr.  Addison,  of  Oxford,  proposed  to 
travel  as  governor  to  a young  gentleman  on 
the  grand  tour,  the  great  Duke  of  Somerset 
proposed  to  Mr.  Addison  to  accompany  his 
son,  Lord  Hertford. 

Mr.  Addison  was  delighted  to  be  of  use  to 


his  Grace,  and  his  lordship  his  Grace’s  son, 
and  expressed  himself  ready  to  set  forth. 

His  Grace  the  Duke  of  Somerset  now  an- 
nounced to  one  of  the  most  famous  scholars 
of  Oxford  and  Europe  that  it  was  his  gracious 
intention  to  allow  my  Lord  Hertford’s  tutor 
one  hundred  guineas  per  annum.  Mr.  Addi- 
son wrote  back  that  his  services  were  his 
Grace’s,  but  he  by  no  means  found  his  account 
in  the  recompense  for  them.  The  negotiation 
was  broken  off.  They  parted  with  a profusion 
of  congees  on  one  side  and  the  other. 


* His  knowledge  of  the  Latin  poets,  from  Lucretius  and  Ca- 
tullus down  to  Claudian  and  Prudentius,  was  singularly  exact 
and  profound.’’  — Macaulay. 

t “ Our  country  owes  it  to  him,  that  the  famous  Monsieur 
Boileau  first  conceived  an  opinion  of  the  English  genius  for 
poetry,  by  perusing  the  present  he  made  him  of  the  ‘ Musae 
Anglicanae.’  ”~-Tickell,  Preface  to  Addison's  Works. 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS . 


Addison  remained  abroad  for  some  time, 
living  in  the  best  society  of  Europe.  How 
could  lie  do  otherwise?  He  must  have  been 
one  of  the  finest  gentlemen  the  world  ever  saw  : 
at  all  moments  of  life  serene  and  courteous, 
cheerful  and  calm.*  He  could  scarcely  ever 
have  had  a degrading  thought.  He  might  have 
omitted  a virtue  or  two,  or  many,  but  could 
not  have  committed  many  faults  for  which  he 
need  blush  or  turn  pale.  When  warmed  into 
confidence,  his  conversation  appears  to  have 
been  so  delightful  that  the  greatest  wits  sat 
rapt  and  charmed  to  listen  to  him.  No  man 
bore  poverty  and  narrow  fortune  with  a more 
lofty  cheerfulness.  His  letters  to  his  friends 
at  this  period  of  his  life,  when  he  had  lost  his 
government  pension  and  given  up  his  college 
chances,  are  full  of  courage  and  a gay  confi- 
dence and  philosophy  : and  they  are  none  the 
worse  in  my  eyes,  and  I hope  not  in  those 
of  his  last  and  greatest  biographer  (though  Mr. 
Macaulay  is  bound  to  own  and  lament  a cer- 
tain weakness  for  wine,  which  the  great  and 
good  Joseph  Addison  notoriously  possessed,  in 
common  with  countless  gentlemen  of  his  time), 
because  some  of  the  letters  are  written  when 
his  honest  hand  was  shaking  a litttle  in  the 
morning  after  libations  to  purple  Lyseus  over- 
night. He  was  fond  of  drinking  the  healths 
of  his  friends  : he  writes  to  Wyche,  of  Ham- 

* “ It  was  ray  fate  to  be  much  with  the  wits ; my  father 
was  acquainted  with  all  of  them.  Addison  was  the  best  com- 
pany in  the  icorld . I never  knew  anybody  that  had  so  much 
wit  as  Congreve.”  — Lady  Wortley  Montagu.  Spence's  An- 
ecdotes. 


CONGREVE  AND  ADDISON. 


S3 


burg,*  gratefully  remembering  Wyche’s  “ hoc.” 
u T have  been  drinking  your  health  to-day 
with  Sir  Richard  Shirley,”  he  writes  to  Bath- 
urst. “ I have  lately  had  the  honor  to  meet 
my  Lord  Effingham  at  Amsterdam,  where  wre 
have  drunk  Mr.  Wood’s  health  a hundred  times 
in  excellent  champagne,”  he  writes  again. 
Swift  f describes  him  over  his  cups,  when 
Joseph  yielded  to  a temptation  which  Jonathan 


* “Mr.  xIddison  to  Mr.  Wyche. 

“ Dear  Sir, — My  hand  at  present  begins  to  grow  steady 
enough  for  a letter,  so  the  properest  use  I can  put  it  to  is  to 
thank  ye  honest  gentleman  that  set  it  a shaking.  I have  had  this 
morning  a desperate  design  in  my  head  to  attack  you  in  verse, 
which  I should  certainly  have  done  could  I have  found  out  a 
rhyme  to  rummer.  But  though  you  have  escaped  for  y«  pres- 
ent, you  are  not  yet  out  of  danger,  if  I can  a little  recover  my 
talent  at  crambo  I am  sure,  in  whatever  way  I write  to  you,  it 
will  be  impossible  for  me  to  express  ye  deep  sense  I have  of 
ye  many  favors  you  have  lately  shown  me.  I shall  only  tell 
you  that  Hambourg  has  been  the  pleasantest  stage  I have  met 
with  in  my  travails.  If  any  of  my  friends  wonder  at  me  for 
living  so  long  in  that  place,  I dare  say  it  will  be  thought  a very 
good  excuse  when  I tell  him  Mr.  Wyche  was  there.  As  your 
company  made  our  stay  at  Hambourg  agreeable,  your  wine  has 
given  us  all  ye  satisfaction  that  we  have  found  in  our  journey 
through  Westphalia.  If  drinking  your  health  will  do  you  any 
good,  you  may  expect  to  be  as  long-lived  as.  Methuselah,  or,  to 
use  a more  familiar  instance,  as  ye  oldest  hoc  in  ye  cellar.  I 
hope  ye  two  pair  of  legs  that  was  left  a swelling  behind  us  are 
by  this  time  come  to  their  shapes  again.  I can’t  forbear  troub- 
ling you  with  my  hearty  respects  to  ye  owners  of  them,  and  de- 
siring you  to  believe  me  always,  Dear  Sir,  yours,”  etc. 

“ To  Mr.  Wyche,  His  Majesty’s  Resident  at  Hambourg, 

May,  1703.” 

— From  the  Life  of  Addison,  by  Miss  Aikin,  vol.  i.  p 146. 

f It  is  pleasing  to  remember  that  the  relation  between  Swift 
and  Addison  was,  on  the  whole,  satisfactory  from  first  to  last. 
The  value  of  Swift’s  testimony,  when  nothing  personal  inflamed 
his  vision  or  warped  his  judgment,  can  be  doubted  by  nobody. 

“Sept.  10,  1710.  — I sat  till  ten  in  the  evening  with  Addison 
and  Steele. 

“11.  — Mr.  Addison  and  I dined  together  at  his  lodgings,  and 
I sat  with  him  part  of  this  evening.  u f' 

“ 18.  — To-day  I dined  with  Mr.  Stratford  at  Mr.  Addison’s 


84 


ENGLISH  HUM01USTS. 


resisted.  Joseph  was  of  a cold  nature,  and 
needed  perhaps  the  fire  of  wine  to  warm  his 
blood.  If  he  was  a parson,  he  wore  a t}'e-wig, 
recollect.  A better  and  more  Christian  man 
scarcely  ever  breathed  than  Joseph  Addison. 
If  he  had  not  that  little  weakness  for  wine  — 
why,  we  could  scarcely  have  found  a fault 
with  him,  and  could  not  have  liked  him  as  we 
do.* 

At  thirty-three  years  of  age,  this  most  dis- 
tinguished wit,  scholar,  and  gentleman  was 
without  a profession  and  an  income.  His 
book  of  “Travels”  had  failed:  his  “Dia- 
logues on  Medals  ” had  had  no  particular 
success : his  Latin  verses,  even  though  re- 
ported the  best  since  Virgil,  or  Statius  at 


retirement  near  Chelsea.  ...  I will  get  what  good  offices  I can 
from  Mr.  Addison. 

“27. — To-day  all  our  company  dined  at  Will  Frankland’s, 
with  Steele  and  Addison,  too. 

“29.  — I dined  with  Mr.  Addison,”  etc.  — Journ  l to  Stella. 

Addison  inscribed  a presentation  copy  of  his  Travels  “ To 
Dr.  Jonathan  Swift,  the  most  agreeable  companion,  the  truest 
friend,  and  the  greatest  genius  of  his  age.”  — (Scott.  From 
the  information  of  Mr.  Theophilus  Swift.) 

Mr.  Addison,  who  goes  over  first  secretary,  is  a most  excel- 
lent person;  and  being  my  most  intimate  friend,  I shall  use  i*ll 
my  credit  to  set  him  right  in  his  notions  of  persons  and  things.” 
•—  Letters. 

“ I examine  my  heart,  and  can  find  no  other  reason  why  I 
write  to  you  now,  besides  that  great  love  and  esteem  I have 
always  had  for  you.  I have  nothing  to  ask  you  either  for  my 
friend  or  for  myself.’’ — Swift  to  Addison  (1717).  Scott’s 
Swift,  vol.xix.  p.  274. 

Political  differences  only  dulled  for  a while  their  friendly 
communications.  Time  renewed  them : and  Tickell  enjoyed 
Swift’s  friendship  as  a legacy  from  the  man  with  whose  memory 
his  is  so  honorably  connected. 

*“  Addison  usually  studied  all  the  morning;  then  met  his 
party  at  Button’s;  dined  there,  and  stayed  five  or  six  hours,  and 
sometimes  far  into  the  night.  I was  of  the  company  for  about 
a year,  but  found  it  too  much  for  me  : it  hurt  my  health,  and  so 
I quitted  it.”  — Pope.  Spence’s  Anecdotes. 


CONGREVE  AND  ADDISON 


85 


any  rate,  had  not  brought  him  a Govern- 
ment place,  and  Addison  was  living  up  three 
shabby  pair  of  stairs  in  the  Haymarket  (in  a 
poverty  over  which  old  Samuel  Johnson  rather 
chuckles),  when  in  these  shabby  rooms  an 
emissary  from  Government  and  Fortune  came 
and  found  him.*  A poem  was  wanted  about 
the  Duke  of  Marlborough’s  victory  of  Blen- 
heim. Would  Mr.  Addison  write  one?  Mr. 
Boyle,  afterwards  Lord  Carle  ton,  took  back 
the  reply  to  the  Lord  Treasurer  Godolphin, 
that  Mr.  Addison  would.  When  the  poem 
had  reached  a certain  stage,  it  was  carried  to 
Godolphin;  and  the  last  lines  which  he  read 
were  these  : — 

“ But,  O my  Muse  ! what  uumbers  wilt  thou  find 
To  sing  the  furious  troops  in  battle  join’d  ? 

Methinks  I hear  the  drum’s  tumultuous  sound 
The  victors’  shouts  and  dying  groans  confound; 

The  dreadful  burst  of  cannon  rend  the  skies, 

And  all  the  thunder  of  the  battle  rise. 

’T  was  then  great  Marlborough’s  mighty  soul  was 
proved, 

That,  in  the  shock  of  charging  hosts  unmoved, 

Amidst  confusion,  horror,  and  despair, 

Examined  all  the  dreadful  scenes  of  war  : 

In  peaceful  thought  the  field  of  death  surveyed, 

To  fainting  squadrons  sent  the  timely  aid, 

Inspired  repulsed  battalions  to  engage, 

And  taught  the  doubtful  battle  where  to  rage. 

So  when  an  angel,  by  divine  command, 

With  rising  tempests  shakes  a guilty  laud 


* “ When  he  returned  to  England  (in  1702).  with  a meanness 
of  appearance  which  gave  testimony  of  the  diliiculties  to  which 
he  had  been  reduced,  he  found  his  old  patrons  out  of  power,  and 
was,  therefore,  for  a time,  at  full  leisure  for  the  cultivation  of 
his  mind.”  — Johnson,  Lives  of  the  Poets. 


ENGLISH  HUMOBISTS. 


$6 


(Such  as  of  late  o’er  pale  Britannia  passed), 

Calm  and  serene  he  drives  the  furious  blast ; 

And,  pleased  the  Almighty’s  orders  to  perform, 
Rides  in  the  whirlwind  and  directs  the  storm.” 

Addison  left  off  at  a good  moment.  That 
simile  was  pronounced  to  be  of  the  greatest 
ever  produced  in  poetry.  That  angel,  that 
good  angel,  flew  off  with  Mr.  Addison,  and 
landed  him  in  the  place  of  Commissioner  of 
Appeals  - — vice  Mr.  Locke  providentially  pro- 
moted. In  the  following  year  Mr.  Addison 
went  to  Hanover  with  Lord  Halifax,  and  the 
year  after  was  made  Under  Secretary  of  State. 
O angel  visits!  you  come  u few  and  far 
between  ” to  literary  gentlemen’s  lodgings ! 
Your  wings  seldom  quiver  at  second-floor 
windows  now  ! 

You  laugh?  You  think  it  is  in  the  power 
of  few  writers  nowadays  to  call  up  such  an 
angel?  Well,  perhaps  not ; but  permit  us  to 
comfort  ourselves  by  pointing  out  that  there 
are  in  the  poem  of  the  u Campaign  ” some  as 
bad  lines  as  heart  can  desire  ; and  to  hint  that 
Mr.  Addison  did  very  wisely  in  not  going  fur- 
ther with  my  Lord  Godolphin  than  that  angel- 
ical simile.  Do  allow  me,  just  for  a little 
harmless  mischief,  to  read  you  some  of  the 
lines  which  follow.  Here  is  the  interview  be- 
tween the  Duke  and  the  King  of  the  Romans 
after  the  battle  : — 

“ Austria’s  young  monarch,  whose  imperial  sway 
Sceptres  and  thrones  are  destined  to  obey, 

Whose  boasted  ancestry  so  high  extends 
That  in  the  Pagan  Gods  his  lineage  ends, 


CONGREVE  AND  ADDISON. 


87 


Comes  from  afar,  in  gratitude  to  own 
The  great  supporter  of  his  father’s  throne. 

What  tides  of  glory  to  his  bosom  ran 
Clasped  in  th’  embraces  of  the  godlike  man  ! 

How  were  his  eyes  with  pleasing  wonder  fixt, 

To  see  such  fire  with  so  much  sweetness  mixt ! 

Such  easy  greatness,  sucli  a graceful  port, 

So  turned  and  finished  for  the  camp  or  court ! ” 

How  many  fourth-form  boys  at  Mr.  Addison’s 
school  of  Charterhouse  could  write  as  well  as 
that  now?  The  4 ‘ Campaign  ” has  blunders, 
triumphant  as  it  was  ; and  weak  points  like  all 
campaigns.* 

In  the  year  1713  u Cato  came  out.  Swift 
has  left  a description  of  the  first  night  of  the 
performance.  All  the  laurels  of  Europe  were 
scarcely  sufficient  for  the  author  of  this  pro- 
digious poem.f  Laudations  of  Whig  and  Tory 
chiefs,  popular  ovations,  complimentary  gar- 
lands from  literary  men,  translations  in  all 

*“  Mr.  Addison  wrote  very  fluently ; but  he  was  sometimes 
very  slow  and  scrupuldus  in  correcting.  He  would  show  his 
verses  to  several  friends ; and  would  alter  almost  everything  that 
any  of  them  hinted  at  as  wrong.  He  seemed  to  be  too  diffident 
of  himself;  and  too  much  concerned  about  his  character  as  a 
poet;  or  (as  he  worded  it)  too  solicitous  for  that  kind  of  praise 
which,  God  knows,  is  but  a very  little  matter  after  all ! ’*  — Pope. 
Spence's  Anecdotes. 

t “ As  to  poetical  affairs,”  says  Pope,  in  1713,  “ I am  content 
at  present  to  be  a bare  looker-on.  . . . Cato  was  not  so  much  the 
wonder  of  Rome  in  his  days,  as  he  is  of  Britain  in  ours;  and 
though  all  the  foolish  industry  possible  has  been  used  to  make 
it  thought  a party  play,  yet  what  the  author  once  said  of  another 
may  the  most  properly  in  the  world  be  applied  to  him  on  this 
occasion : — 

“ ‘ Envy  itself  is  dumb  — in  wonder  lost ; 

And  factions  strive  who  shall  applaud  him  most.* 

“ The  numerous  and  violent  claps  of  the  Whig  party  on  the 
one  side  of  the  theatre  were  echoed  back  by  the  Tories  on  the 
other;  while  the  author  sweated  behind  the  scenes  with  concern 
to  find  their  applause  proceeding  more  from  the  hand  than  the 
head,  . . , I believe  you  have  heard  that,  after  all  the  applauses 


88 


ENGLISH  HUMOBISTS. 


languages,  delight  and  homage  from  all,  save 
from  John  Dennis  in  a minority  of  one.  Mr. 
Addison  was  called  the  “ great  Mr.  Addison” 
after  this.  The  Coffee-house  Senate  saluted 
him  Divus : it  was  heresy  to  question  that 
decree. 

Meanwhile  he  was  writing  political  papers 
and  advancing  in  the  political  profession.  He 
went  Secretary  to  Ireland.  He  was  ap- 
pointed Secretary  of  State  in  1717.  And  let- 
ters of  his  are  extant,  bearing  date  some  year 
or  two  before,  and  written  to  young  Lord 
Warwick,  in  which  he  addresses  him  as  u my 
dearest  lord,”  and  asks  affectionately  about 
his  studies,  and  writes  very  prettily  about 
nightingales  and  birds’-nests,  which  he  has 

of  the  opposite  faction,  my  Lord  Bolingbroke  sent  for  Booth, 
who  played  Cato , into  the  box,  and  presented  him  with  fifty 
guineas  in  acknowledgment  (as  he  expressed  it)  for  defending 
the  cause  of  liberty  so  well  against  a perpetual  dictator.”  — 
Pope’s  Letters  to  Sir  W.  Trumbull. 

“ Cato  ” ran  for  thirty-five  nights  without  interruption.  Pope 
wrote  the  Prologue,  and  Garth  the  Epilogue. 

It  is  worth  noticing  how  many  things  in  “Cato  ” keep  their 
ground  as  habitual  quotations,  e.  g. : — 

“ . . . big  with  the  fate 
Of  Cato  and  of  Rome.” 

“ ’Tis  not  in  mortals  to  command  success, 

But  we  ’ll  do  more,  Sempronius,  we  ’ll  deserve  it.” 

“ Blesses  his  stars,  and  thinks  it  luxury.” 

“ I think  the  Romans  call  it  Stoicism.” 

“ My  voice  is  still  for  war.” 

“ When  vice  prevails,  and  impious  men  bear  sway, 

The  post  of  honor  is  a private  station.” 

Not  to  mention  — 

“ The  woman  who  deliberates  is  lost.” 

And  the  eternal  — 

“ Plato,  thou  reasonest  well,” 

which  avenges,  perhaps,  on  the  public  their  neglect  of  the  play} 


COXGBEVE  AXD  AD  DISOX. 


89 


found  at  Fulham  for  his  lordship.  Those 
nightingales  were  intended  to  warble  in  the  ear 
of  Lord  Warwick’s  mamma.  Addison  married 
her  ladyship  in  1716;  and  died  at  Holland 
House  three  years  after  that  splendid  but  dis- 
mal union.  * 

But  it  is  not  for  his  reputation  as  the  great 
author  of  u Cato  ” and  the  44  Campaign,”  or 


* “ The  lady  was  persuaded  to  marry  him  on  terms  much 
like  those  on  which  a Turkish  princess  is  espoused  — to  whom 
the  Sultau  is  reported  to  pronounce,  ‘ Daughter,  I give  thee  this 
m;in  for  thy  slave.’  The  marriage,  if  uncontradicted  report  can 
be  credited,  made  no  addition  to  his  happiness;  it  neither  found 
them,  nor  made  them  equal.  . . . Howe’s  ballad  of  ‘The 
Despairing  Shepherd’  is  said  to  have  been  written,  either 
before  or  after  marriage,  upon  this  memorable  pair.”  — Dr. 
Johnson. 

“ I received  the  news  of  Mr.  Addison’s  being  declared  Sec- 
retary of  State,  with  the  less  surprise,  in  that  1 knew  that  post 
was  almost  offered  to  him  before.  At  that  time  he  declined  it, 
and  I really  believe  that  he  would  have  done  well  to  have 
declined  it  now  $uch  a post  as  that,  and  such  a wife  as  the 
Countess,  do  not  seem  to  be,  in  prudence,  eligible  for  a man  that 
is  asthmatic,  and  we  may  see  the' day  when  he  will  be  heartily 
glad  to  resigu  them  both.”  — Lady  Wortley  Montagu  to 
Pope  : Work s Lord  Whar acliffe1  s edition,  vol  ii.  p.  111. 

The  issue  of  this  marriage  was  a daughter,  Charlotte  Addi- 
son, who  inherited,  on  her  mother’s  death,  the  estate  of  Bilton, 
near  Rugby,  which  her  father  had  purchased.  She  was  of  weak 
intellect,  and  died  unmarried,  at  an  advanced  age. 

Rowe  appears  to  have  been  faithful  to  Addison  during  his 
courtship,  for  his  Collection  contains  “Stanzas  to  Lady  War- 
wick, on  Mr.  Addison’s  going  to  Ireland,”  in  which  her  ladyship 
is  called  “ Chloe,”  and  Joseph  Addison  “ Lycidas  ” ; besides  the 
ballad  mentioned  by  the  Doctor,  and  which  is  entitled  “ Colin’s 
Complaint.”  But  not  even  the  interest  attached  to  the  name  of 
Addison  could  induce  the  reader  to  peruse  this  composition, 
though  one  stanza  may  serve  as  a specimen  : — 

“ What  though  I have  skill  to  complain  — 

Though  the  Muses  my  temples  have  crowned; 

What  though,  when  they  hear  my  soft  strain, 

The  virgins  sit  weeping  around. 

“ Ah,  Colin  ! thy  hopes  are  in  vain ; 

Thy  pipe  and  thy  laurel  resign  ; 

Thy  false  one  inclines  to  a swain 
Whose  music  is  sweeter  than  thine.” 


90 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


for  his  merits  as  Secretary  of  State,  or  for 
his  rank  and  high  distinction  as  my  Lady 
Warwick’s  husband,  or  for  his  eminence  as  an 
Examiner  of  political  questions  on  the  Whig 
side,  or  a guardian  of  British  liberties,  that 
we  admire  Joseph  Addison.  It  is  as  a Tat- 
ler  of  small  talk  and  a Spectator  of  man- 
kind, that  we  cherish  and  love  him,  and  owe 
as  much  pleasure  to  him  as  to  any  human 
being  that  ever  wrote.  He  came  in  that  arti- 
ficial age,  and  began  to  speak  with  his  noble, 
natural  voice,  lie  came,  the  gentle  satirist, 
who  hit  no  unfair  blow  ; the  kind  judge  who 
castigated  only  in  smiling.  While  Swift  went 
about,  hanging  and  ruthless,  — a literary  Jef- 
freys, — in  Addison’s  kind  court  only  minor 
cases  were  tried  ; only  peccadilloes  and  small 
sins  against  society  ; only  a dangerous  liber- 
tinism in  tuckers  and  hoops  ; * or  a nuisance 

* One  of  the  most  humorous  of  these  is  the  paper  on  IIoops, 
which,  the  Spectator  tells  us,  particularly  pleased  his  friend  Sir 
Roger : — 

“ Mr.  Spectator,  — You  have  diverted  the  town  almost  a 
whole  month  at  the  expense  of  the  country  ; it  is  now  high  time 
that  you  should  give  the  country  their  revenge.  Since  your 
withdrawing  from  this  place,  the  fair  sex  are  run  into  great 
extravagances.  Their  petticoats,  which  began  to  heave  and  swell 
before  you  left  us,  are  now  blown  up  into  a most  enormous 
concave,  and  rise  every  day  more  aud  more;  in  short,  sir,  since 
our  women  know  themselves  to  be  out  of  the  eye  of  the  Spec- 
tator,  they  will  be  kept  within  no  compass.  You  praised  them 
a little  too  soon,  for  the  modesty  of  their  head-dresses;  for  as 
the  humor  of  a sick  person  is  often  driven  out  of  one  limb  into 
another,  their  superfluity  of  ornaments,  instead  of  being  entirely 
banished,  seems  only  fallen  from  their  heads  upon  their  lower 
parts.  What  they  have  lost  in  height  they  make  up  in  breadth, 
and,  contrary  to  all  rules  of  architecture,  widen  the  foundations 
at  the  same  time  that  they  shorten  the  superstructure. 

“The  women  give  out,  in  defence  of  those  wide  bottoms,  that 
they  are  airy  and  very  proper  fof  the  season ; but  this  I look 
upon  to  be  only  a pretence  and  a piece  of  art,  for  it  is  well 
known  we  have  not  had  a more  moderate  summer  these  many 


CONGE  EVE  AND  ADDISON.  91 

in  the  abuse  of  beaux’  canes  and  snuff-boxes. 
It  may  be  a lady  is  tried  for  breaking  the 
peace  of  our  sovereign  lady  Queen  Anne,  and 
ogling  too  dangerously  from  the  side-box ; 
or  a Templar  for  beating  the  watch,  or  break- 
ing Priscian’s  head  ; or  a citizen’s  wife  for 
coxing  too  much  for  the  puppet-show,  and  too 
little  for  her  husband  and  children  : every  one 
of  the  little  sinners  brought  before  him  is 
amusing,  and  he  dismisses  each  with  the  pleas- 
antest penalties  and  the  most  charming  words 
of  admonition. 

Addison  wrote  his  papers  as  gayly  as  if  he 
was  going  out  for  a holiday.  When  Steele’s 
u Tatler  ” first  began  his  prattle,  Addison, 
then  in  Ireland,  caught  at  his  friend’s  notion, 
poured  in  paper  after  paper,  and  contributed 
the  stores  of  his  mind,  the  sweet  fruit  of  his 


years,  so  that  it  is  certain  the  heat  they  complain  of  cannot  be 
in  the  weather;  besides,  I would  fain  ask  those  tender-consti- 
tuted ladies,  why  they  should  require  more  cooling  than  their 
mothers  before  them? 

“ I find  several  speculative  persons  are  of  opinion  that  our 
sex  has  of  late  years  been  very  saucy,  and  that  the  hoop-petti- 
coat is  made  use  of  to  keep  us  at  a distance.  It  is  most  certain 
that  a woman’s  honor  cannot  be  better  entrenched  thau  after 
this  manner,  in  circle  within  circle,  amidst  such  a variety  of  out- 
works of  line  of  circumvallation.  A female  who  is  thus  invested 
in  whalebone  is  sufficiently  secured  against  the  approaches  of 
an  ill-bred  fellow,  who  might  as  well  think  of  Sir  George 
Etherege’s  way  of  making  love  in  a tub  as  in  the  midst  of  so 
many  hoops. 

“Amongst  these  various  conjectures,  there  are  men  of 
superstitious  tempers  who  look  upon  the  hoop-petticoat  as  a 
kind  of  prodigy.  Some  will  have  it  that  it  portends  the  down- 
fall of  the  French  king,  and  observe,  that  the  farthingale 
appeared  in  England  a little  before  the  ruin  of  the  Spanish  mon- 
archy. Others  are  of  opinion  that  it  foretells  battle  and  blood- 
shed, and  believe  it  of  the  same  prognostication  as  the  tail  of  a 
blazing  star.  For  ray  part,  I am  apt  to  think  it  is  a sign  that 
multitudes  are  coming  into  the  world  rather  than  going  out  oi 
it,”  etc.,  etc,  — Spectator , No.  127. 


92 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS . 


reading,  the  delightful  gleanings  of  his  daily 
observation,  with  a wonderful  profusion,  and 
as  it  seemed  an  almost  endless  fecundity.  He 
was  six-and- thirty  years  old,  full  and  ripe.  He 
had  not  worked  crop  aftercrop  from  his  brain, 
manuring  hastily,  subsoiling  indifferently,  cut- 
ting and  sowing  and  cutting  again,  like  other 
luckless  cultivators  of  letters,  lie  had  not 
done  much  as  yet ; a few  Latin  poems,  grace- 
ful profusions ; a polite  book  of  travels ; a 
dissertation  on  medals,  not  very  deep ; four 
acts  of  a tragedy,  a great  classical  exercise  ; 
and  the  “ Campaign,”  a large  prize  poem  that 
won  an  enormous  prize.  But  with  his  friend’s 
discovery  of  the  “ Tatler,”  Addison’s  calling 
was  found,  and  the  most  delightful  talker  in 
the  world  began  to  speak.  He  does  not  go 
very  deep  : let  gentlemen  of  a profound  genius, 
critics  accustomed  to  the  plunge  of  the  bathos, 
console  themselves  by  thinking  that  he  couldn't 
go  very  deep.  There  are  no  traces  of  suffer- 
ing in  his  writing.  He  was  so  good,  so  hon- 
est, so  healthy,  so  cheerfully  selfish,  if  I must 
use  the  word.  There  is  no  deep  sentiment. 
1 doubt,  until  after  his  marriage,  perhaps, 
whether  he  ever  lost  his  night’s  rest  or  his 
day’s  tranquillity  about  any  woman  in  his  life  ;* 
whereas  poor  Dick  Steele  had  capacity  enough 
to  melt,  and  to  languish,  and  to  sigh,  and  to 
cry  his  honest  old  eyes  out,  for  a dozen.  His 
writings  do  not  show  insight  into  or  reverence 

o o 


* “Mr.  Addison  has  not  had  one  epithalamium  that  I can 
hear  of,  and  must  even  be  reduced,  like  a poorer  and  a better 
poet,  Spenser,  to  make  bis  own.”  — Pope’s  Letters . 


CONGREVE  AND  ADDISON 


93 


for  the  love  of  women,  which  I take  to  be, 
one  the  consequence  of  the  other.  He  walks 
about  the  world  watching  their  pretty  humors, 
fashions,  follies,  flirtations,  rivalries  ; and  not- 
i g them  with  the  most  charming  archness, 
lie  sees  them  in  public,  in  the  theatre,  or  the 
assembly,  or  the  puppet  show  ; or  at  the  toy- 
shop higgling  for  gloves  and  lace  ; or  at  the 
auction,  battling  together  over  a blue  porcelain 
dragon,  or  a darling  monster  in  Japan  ; or  at 
church,  eying  the  width  of  their  rival’s  hoops, 
or  the  breadth  of  their  laces,  as  they  sweep 
down  the  aisles.  Or  he  looks  out  of  his 
window  at  the  “Garter”  in  St.  James’s 
Street,  at  Ardelia’s  coach,  as  she  blazes  to  the 
drawing-room  with  her  coronet  and  six  foot- 
men ; and  remembering  that  her  father  was  a 
Turkey  merchant  in  the  city,  calculates  how 
many  sponges  went  to  purchase  her  ear-ring, 
and  how  many  drums  of  figs  to  build  her  coach- 
box ; or  he  demurely  watches  behind  a tree  in 
Spring  Garden,  as  Saccharissa(whom  he  knows 
under  her  mask)  trips  out  of  her  chair  to  the 
alley  where  Sir  Fopling  is  waiting.  He  sees 
only  the  public  life  of  women.  Addison  was 
one  of  the  most  resolute  club-men  of  his  day. 
He  passed  many  hours  daily  in  those  haunts. 
Besides  drinking  — which  alas,  is  past  praying 
for  — you  must  know  it,  he  owned,  too,  ladies, 
that  he  indulged  in  that  odious  practice  of 
smoking.  Poor  fellow  ! He  was  a man’s  man, 
remember.  The  only  woman  he  did  know,  he 
did  n’t  write  about.  I take  it  there  would  not 
have  been  much  humor  in  that  story. 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


94 


He  likes  to  go  and  sit  in  the  smoking-room 
at  the  “ Grecian/'  or  the  64  Devil  to  pace 
’Change  and  the  Mall ; * to  mingle  in  that 
great  club  of  the  world  — sitting  alone  in  it 
somehow  ; having  good-wili  and  kindness  -for 
every  single  man  and  woman  in  it ; having 
need  of  some  habit  and  custom  binding  him  to 
some  few ; never  doing  any  man  a wrong 
(unless  it  be  a wrong  to  hint  a little  doubt 
about  a man’s  parts,  and  to  damn  him  with  faint 
praise)  ; and  so  he  looks  on  the  world  and 
plays  witli  the  ceaseless  humors  of  all  of  us.  — 
laughs  the  kindest  laugh,  points  our  neigh- 


* “ I have  observed  that  a reader  seldom  peruses  a book 
with  pleasure  till  he  knows  whether  the  writer  of  it  be  a black 
or  a fair  man,  of  a mild  or  a choleric  disposition,  married  or  a 
bachelor;  with  other  particulars  of  a like  nature,  that  conduce 
very  much  to  the  right  understanding  of  an  author.  To  gratify 
this  curiosity,  which  is  so  natural  to  a reader,  I design  this  paper 
and  my  next  as  prefatory  discourses  to  my  following  writings; 
and  shall  give  some  account  in  them  of  the  persons  that  are  en- 
gaged in  this  work.  As  the  chief  trouble  of  compiling,  digest- 
ing, and  correcting  will  fall  to  my  share,  I must  do  myself  the 
justice  to  open  the  work  with  my  own  history.  . . . There  runsa 
story  in  the  family,  that  when  my  mother  was  gone  with  child  of 
me  about  three  months,  she  dreamt  that  she  was  brought  to  bed 
of  a judge.  Whether  thi-t  might  proceed  from  a lawsuit  which 
was  then  depending  in  the  family,  or  my  father’s  being  a justice 
of  the  peace,  I cannot  determine;  for  I am  not  so  vain  as  to 
think  it  presaged  any  dignity  that  I should  arrive  at  in  my  future 
life,  though  that  was  the  interpretation  which  the  neighborhood 
put  upon  it.  The  gravity  of  my  behavior  at  my  very  first  ap- 
pearance in  the  world,  and  all  the  time  that  I sucked,  seemed 
to  favor  my  mother’s  dream;  for,  as  she  has  often  told  me,  I 
threw  away  my  rattle  before  I was  two  months  old,  and  would 
not  make  use  of  my  coral  till  they  had  taken  away  the  bells 
from  it. 

“ As  for  the  rest  of  my  infancy,  there  being  nothing  in  it 
remarkable,  I shall  pass  it  over  in  silence.  I find  that  during 
my  nonage  I had  the  reputation  of  a very  sullen  youth,  but  was 
always  the  favorite  of  my  schoolmaster,  who  used  to  say  that 
my  parts  were  solid  and  loould  wear  well.  I had  not  been  long 
at  the  university  before  I distinguished  myself  by  a most  pro- 
found silence;  for  during  the  space  of  eight  years,  excepting  in 
the  public  exercises  of  the  college,  I scarce  uttered  the  quantity 


CONGREVE  AND  ADDISON 


95 


bor’s  foible  or  eccentricity  out  to  us  with  the 
most  good-natured,  smiling  confidence  ; and 
then,  turning  over  his  shoulder,  whispers  oar 
foibles  to  our  neighbor.  What  would  Sir 
Roger  de  Coverley  be  without  his  follies  and 
his  charming  little  brain-cracks  ? * If  the  good 
knight  did  not  call  out  to  the  people  sleeping 
in  church,  and  say  u Amen”  with  such  a 
delightful  pomposity : if  he  did  not  make  a 
speech  in  the  assize  court  apropos  de  bottes , 
and  merely  to  show  his  dignity  to  Mr.  Spec- 


of  a hundred  words;  and,  indeed,  I do  not  remember  that  I ever 
spoke  three  sentences  together  in  my  whole  life.  . . . 

“I  have  passed  my  latter  years  in  this  city,  where  I am  fre- 
quently seen  in  most  public  places,  though  there  are  not  more 
than  half  a dozen  of  my  select  friends  that  know  me.  . . . There 
is  no  place  of  general  resort  wherein  I do  not  often  make  my 
appearance;  sometimes  I am  seen  thrusting  my  head  into  a 
round  of  politicians  at  ‘ Will’s,’  and  listening  with  great  atten- 
tion to  the  narratives  that  are  made  in  these  little  circular  audi- 
ences. Sometimes  I smoke  a pipe  at  ‘ Child’s,’  and  whilst  I seem 
attentive  to  nothing  but  the  Postman,  overhear  the  conversation 
of  every  table  in  the  room.  I appear  on  Tuesday  night  at  ‘ St. 
James’s  Coffee-House  ’ ; aud  sometimes  join  the  little  committee 
of  politics  in  the  inner  room,  as  one  who  comes  to  hear  and  im- 
prove. My  face  is  likewise  very  well  known  at  the  ‘Grecian,’ 
the  * Cocoa-tree,’  and  in  the  theatres  both  of  Drury  Lane  and  the 
Haymarket.  I have  been  taken  for  a merchant  upon  the  Ex- 
change for  above  these  two  years ; and  sometimes  pass  for  a Jew 
in  the  assembly  of  stock  jobbers  at  ‘Jonathan’s.’  In  short, 
wherever  I see  a cluster  of  people,  I mix  with  them,  though  I 
never  open  my  lips  but  in  my  own  club. 

“Thus  I live  in  the  world  rather  as  a * Spectator9  of  man- 
kind than  as  one  of  the  species;  by  which  means  I have  made 
myself  a speculative  statesman,  soldier,  merchant,  and  artisan, 
without  ever  meddling  in  any  practical  part  in  life.  I am  very 
well  versed  in  the  theory  of  a husband  or  a father,  and  can  dis- 
cern the  errors  in  the  economy,  business,  and  diversions  of 
others,  better  than  those  who  are  engaged  in  them  — as  standers- 
by  discover  blots  which  are  apt  to  escape  those  who  are  in  the 
game.  ...  In  short,  I have  acted,  in  all  the  parts  of  my  life,  as 
a looker-on,  which  is  the  character  I intend  to  preserve  in  this 
paper.”  — Spectator,  No.  1. 

* “ So  effectually,  indeed,  did  he  retort  on  vice  the  mockery 
which  had  recently  been  directed  against  virtue,  that,  since  his 
time,  the  open  violation  of  decency  has  always  been  considered, 
amongst  us,  the  sure  mark  of  a fool.”  — Macaulay. 


96 


ENGLISH  HUMOBISTS. 


tator : * if  he  did  not  mistake  Madam  Doll 
Tearsheet  for  a lady  of  quality  in  Temple  Gar- 
den : if  he  were  wiser  than  he  is  : if  had  not 
his  humor  to  salt  his  life,  and  were  but  a 
mere  English  gentleman  and  game  preserver 
— of  what  worth  were  he  to  us?  We  love 
him  for  his  vanities  as  much  as  his  virtues. 
What  is  ridiculous  is  delightful  in  him  ; we 
are  so  fond  of  him  because  we  laugh  at  him  so. 
And  out  of  that  laughter,  and  out  of  that 
sweet  weakness,  and  out  of  those  harmless 
eccentricities  and  follies,  and  out  of  that 
touched  brain,  and  out  of  that  honest  man- 
hood and  simplicity, — we  get  a result  of  happi- 
ness, goodness,  tenderness,  pit\T,  piety ; such 
as,  if  my  audience  will  think  their  reading  and 
hearing  over,  doctors  and  divines  but  seldom 
have  the  fortune  to  inspire.  And  why  not? 
Is  the  glory  of  Heaven  to  be  sung  only  by  gen- 
tlemen in  black  coats?  Must  the  truth  be  only 


* “ The  court  was  sat  before  Sir  Roger  came;  but,  notwith- 
standing all  the  justices  had  taken  their  places  upon  the  bench, 
they  made  room  for  the  old  knight  at  the  head  of  them ; who  for 
his  reputation  in  the  country  took  occasion  to  whisper  in  the 
judge’s  ear  that  he  leas  glad  his  lordship  had  met  with  so  much 
good  weather  in  his  circuit.  I was  listening  to  the  proceedings 
of  the  court  with  much  attention,  and  inlinitely  pleased  with 
that  great  appearance  and  solemnity  which  so  properly  accom- 
panies such  a public  administration  of  our  laws;  when,  after 
about  an  hour’s  sitting,  I observed,  to  my  great  surprise,  in  the 
midst  of  a trial,  that  my  friend  Sir  Roger  was  getting  up  to 
speak.  I was  in  some  pain  for  him,  till  I found  he  had  acquitted 
himself  of  two  or  three  sentences,  with  a look  of  much  business 
and  great  intrepidity. 

“Upon  his  first  rising,  the  court  was  hushed,  and  a general 
whisper  ran  among  the  country  people  that  {Sir  Roger  was  up. 
The  speech  he  made  was  so  little  to  the  purpose,  that  I shall  not 
trouble  my  readers  with  an  account  of  it,  and  I believe  was  not 
so  much  designed  by  the  knight  himself  to  inform  the  Court  as 
to  give  him  a figure  in  my  eyes,  and  to  keep  up  his  credit  in  the 
country.”  — Spectator , No,  122, 


CONGBEVE  AND  ADDISON 


97 


expounded  in  gown  and  surplice,  and  out  of 
those  two  vestments  can  nobody  preach  it? 
Commend  me  to  this  dear  preacher  without 
orders  — this  parson  in  the  tye-wig.  When 
this  man  looks  from  the  world,  whose  weak- 
nesses he  describes  so  benevolently,  up  to  the 
Heaven  which  shines  over  us  all,  I can  hardly 
fancy  a human  face  lighted  up  with  a more 
serene  rapture,  a human  intellect  thrilling  with 
a purer  love  and  adoration,  than  Joseph  Addi- 
son’s. Listen  to  him : from  your  childhood 
you  have  known  the  verses  ; but  who  can  hear 
their  sacred  music  without  love  and  awe?  — 

“ Soon  as  the  evening  shades  prevail, 

The  moon  takes  up  the  wondrous  tale, 

And  nightly  to  the  listening  earth 
Repeats  the  story  of  her  birth ; 

Whilst  all  the  stars  that  round  her  burn, 

And  all  the  planets  in  their  turn, 

Confirm  the  tidings  as  they  roll, 

And  spread  the  truth  from  pole  to  pole. 

What  though,  in  solemn  silence,  all 
Move  round  the  dark  terrestrial  ball ; 

What  though  no  real  voice  nor  sound 
Amid  their  radiant  orbs  be  found ; 

In  reason’s  ear  they  all  rejoice, 

And  utter  forth  a glorious  voice, 

Forever  singing  as'they  shine, 

The  hand  that  made  us  is  divine.” 


It  seem  to  me  those  verses  shine  like  the 
stars.  They  shine  out  of  a great  deep  calm. 
When  he  turns  to  Heaven,  a Sabbath  comes 
over  that  man’s  mind  : and  his  face  lights  up 
from  it  with  a glory  of  thanks  and  prayer. 
His  sense  of  religion  stirs  through  his  whole 
being.  In  the  fields,  in  the  town  : looking  at 
the  birds  in  the  trees : at  the  children  in  the 
7 


1>8  ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 

streets : in  the  morning  or  in  the  moonlight : 
over  his  books  in  his  own  room : in  a happy 
party  at  a country  merrymaking  or  a town 
assembly,  good-will  and  peace  to  God’s  crea- 
tures, and  love  and  awe  of  Him  who  made 
them,  fill  his  pure  heart  and  shine  from  his 
kind  face.  If  Swift’s  life  was  the  most 
wretched,  I think  Addison’s  was  one  of  the 
most  enviable.  A life  prosperous  and  beau- 
tiful— a calm  death  — an  immense  fame  and 
affection  afterwards  for  his  happy  and  spotless 
name.* 


* “ Garth  sent  to  Addison  (of  whom  he  had  a very  high 
opinion)  on  his  death-bed,  to  ask  him  whether  the  Christian 
religion  was  true.”  — Dr.  Young.  Spence's  Anecdotes. 

“ I have  always  preferred  cheerfulness  to  mirth.  The  latter 
I consider  as  an  act,  the  former  as  an  habit  of  the  mind.  Mirth 
is  short  and  transient,  cheerfulness  fixed  and  permanent.  Those 
are  often  raised  into  the  greatest  transports  of  mirth  who  are 
subject  to  the  greatest  depression  of  melancholy:  on  the  con- 
trary, cheerfulness,  though  it  does  not  give  the  mind  such  an 
exquisite  gladness,  prevents  us  from  falling  into  any  depths  of 
sorrow.  Mirth  is  like  a flash  of  lightning  that  breaks  through  a 
gloom  of  clouds,  and  glitters  for  a moment;  cheerfulness  keeps 
up  a kind  of  daylight  in  the  mind,  and  fills  it  with  a steady  and 
perpetual  serenity.”  — Addison,  Spectator , No.  381. 


STEELE. 


What  do  we  look  for  in  studying  the  history 
of  a past  age?  Is  it  to  learn  the  political 
transactions  and  characters  of  the  leading 
public  men  ? is  it  to  make  ourselves  acquainted 
with  the  life  and  being  of  the  time?  If  we 
set  out  with  the  former  grave  purpose,  where 
is  the  truth,  and  who  believes  that  he  has  it 
entire  ? What  character  of  what  great  man  is 
known  to  you  ? You  can  but  make  guesses  as 
to  character  more  or  less  happy.  In  common 
life  don’t  you  often  judge  and  misjudge  a 
man’s  whole  conduct,  setting  out  from  a wrong- 
impression?  The  tone  of  a voice,  a word  said 
in  joke,  or  a trifle  in  behavior— the  cut  of  his 
hair  or  the  tie  of  his  neckcloth  may  disfigure 
him  in  your  eyes,  or  poison  your  good  opinion  ; 
or  at  the  end  of  years  of  intimacy  it  may  be 
your  closest  friend  says  something,  reveals 
something  which  had  previously  been  a secret, 
which  alters  all  your  views  about  him,  and 
shows  that  he  has  been  acting  on  quite  a differ- 
ent motive  to  that  which  you  fancied  you 
knew.  And  if  it  is  so  with  those  you  know, 
how  much  more  with  those  you  don’t  know ! 
Say,  for  example,  that  I want  to  understand 
the  character  of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough.  I 
read  Swift’s  history  of  the  times  in  which  he 
took  a part ; the  shrewdest  of  observers  and 
initiated,  one  would  think,  into  the  politics  of 


100 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


the  age  — lie  bints  to  me  that  Marlborough 
was  a coward,  and  even  of  doubtful  military 
capacity  : he  speaks  of  Walpole  as  a contempt- 
ible boor,  and  scarcely  mentions,  except  to 
flout  it,  the  great  intrigue  of  the  Queen’s  latter 
days,  which  was  to  have  ended  in  bringing 
back  the  Pretender.  Again,  I read  Marlbor- 
ough’s life  by  a copious  archdeacon,  who  has 
the  command  of  immense  papers,  of  sonorous 
language,  of  what  is  called  the  best  informa- 
tion ; and  I get  little  or  no  insight  into  this 
secret  motive  which,  I believe,  influenced  the 
whole  of  Marlborough’s  career,  which  caused 
his  turnings  and  windings,  his  opportune  fidel- 
ity and  treason,  stopped  his  army  almost  at 
Paris  gate,  and  landed  him  finally  on  the  Han- 
overian side  — the  winning  side  : I get,  I say, 
no  truth,  or  only  a portion  of  it,  in  the  narra- 
tive of  either  writer,  and  believe  that  Coxe’s 
portrait,  or  Swift’s  portrait,  is  quite  unlike  the 
real  Churchill.  I take  this  as  a single  instance, 
prepared  to  be  as  sceptical  about  any  other, 
and  say  to  the  Muse  of  History,  u O venerable 
daughter  of  Mnemosyne,  I doubt  every  single 
statement  you  ever  made  since  your  ladyship 
was  a Muse  ! For  all  your  grave  airs  and  high 
pretensions,  you  are  not  a whit  more  trust- 
worthy than  some  of  your  lighter  sisters  on 
whom  your  partisans  look  down.  You  bid  me 
listen  to  a general’s  oration  to  his  soldiers  : 
Nonsense  ! He  no  more  made  it  than  Turpin 
made  his  dying  speech  at  Newgate.  You  pro- 
nounce a panegyric  on  a hero  : I doubt  it,  and 
say  you  flatter  ourtageously.  You  utter  the 


STEELE. 


101 


condemnation  of  a loose  character : I doubt 
it,  and  think  you  are  prejudiced  and  take  the 
side  of  the  Dons.  You  offer  me  an  autobiog- 
raphy : I doubt  all  autobiographies  I ever 
read  ; except  those,  perhaps,  of  Mr.  Robinson 
Crusoe,  Mariner,  and  writers  of  his  class. 
These  have  no  object  in  setting  themselves 
right  with  the  public  or  their  own  consciences  ; 
these  have  no  motive  for  concealment  or  half- 
truths  ; these  call  for  no  more  confidence  than 
I can  cheerfully  give,  and  do  not  force  me  to 
tax  my  credulity  or  to  fortify  it  by  evidence. 
I take  up  a volume  of  Doctor  Smollett,  or  a 
volume  of  the  Spectator , and  say  the  fiction 
carries  a greater  amount  of  truth  in  solution 
than  the  volume  which  purports  to  be  all  true. 
Out  of  the  fictitious  book  1 get  the  expression 
of  the  life  of  the  time  ; of  the  manners,  of 
the  movement,  the  dress,  the  pleasures,  the 
laughter,  the  ridicules  of  s >ciety  — the  old 
times  live  again,  and  I travel  in  the  old  coun- 
try of  England.  Can  the  heaviest  historian 
do  more  for  me?” 

As  we  read  in  these  delightful  volumes  of 
the  Tatter  and  Spectator  the  past  age  returns, 
the  England  of  our  ancestors  is  revivified. 
The  Maypole  rises  in  the  Strand  again  in  Lon- 
don ; the  churches  are  thronged  with  daily 
worshippers  ; the  beaux  are  gathering  in  the 
coffee-houses ; the  gentry  are  going  to  the 
drawing-room  ; the  ladies  are  thronging  to  the 
toy-shops  ; the  chairmen  are  jostling  in  the 
streets ; the  footmen  are  running  with  links 
before  the  chariots,  or  fighting  round  the  theatre 


102 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


doors.  In  the  country  I see  the  young  Squire 
riding  to  Eton  with  his  servants  behind  him, 
and  Will  Wimble,  the  friend  of  the  family,  to 
see  him  safe.  To  make  that  journey  from  the 
Squire’s  and  back,  Will  is  a week  on  horse- 
back. The  coach  takes  five  days  between 
London  and  Bath.  The  judges  and  the  bar 
ride  the  circuit.  If  my  lad}7  conies  to  town  in 
her  post-chariot,  her  people  carry  pistols  to 
fire  a salute  on  Captain  Macheath  if  he  should 
appear,  and  her  couriers  ride  ahead  to  prepare 
apartments  for  her  at  the  great  caravanserais 
on  the  road ; Boniface  receives  her  under  the 
creaking  sign  of  the  44  Bell”  or  the  44  Ram,” 
and  he  and  his  chamberlains  bow  her  up  the 
great  stair  to  the  state-apartments,  whilst  her 
carriage  rumbles  into  the  court-yard,  where  the 
44  Exeter  Fly”  is  housed  that  performs  the 
journey  in  eight  days,  God  willing,  having 
achieved  its  d ulv  flight  of  twenty  miles,  and 
landed  its  passengers  for  supper  and  sleep. 
The  curate  is  taking  his  pipe  in  the  kitchen, 
where  the  Captain’s  man  — having  hung  up 
his  master’s  half  pike  — is  at  his  bacon  and 
eggs,  bragging  of  Ramillies  and  Malplaquet 
to  the  townsfolk,  who  have  their  club  in  the 
chimney-corner.  The  Captain  is  ogling  tin 
chambermaid  in  the  wooden  gallery,  or  bribing 
her  to  know  who  is  the  pretty  young  mistress 
that  has  come  in  the  coach.  The  pack-horses 
are  in  the  great  stable,  and  the  drivers  and 
ostlers  carousing  in  the  tap.  And  in  Mrs. 
Landlady’s  bar,  over  a glass  of  strong  waters, 
sits  a gentleman  of  military  appearance,  who 


STEELE. 


103 


travels  with  pistols,  as  all  the  rest  of  the 
world  does,  and  has  a rattling  gray  mare  in 
the  stables  which  will  be  saddled  and  away 
with  its  owner  half  an  hour  before  the  u Fly  ” 
sets  out  on  its  last  day’s  flight.  And  some 
five  miles  on  the  road,  as  the  4 4 Exeter  Fly” 
comes  jingling  and  creaking  onwards,  it  will 
suddenly  be  brought  to  a halt  by  a gentleman 
on  a gray  mare,  with  a black  vizard  on  his 
face,  who  thrusts  a long  pistol  into  the  coach 
window,  and  bids  the  company  to  hand  out 
their  purses.  ...  It  must  have  been  no  small 
pleasure  even  to  sit  in  the  great  kitchen  in 
those  days,  and  see  the  tide  of  humankind 
pass  by.  We  arrive  at  places  now,  but  we 
travel  no  more.  Addison  talks  jocularly  of  a 
difference  of  manner  and  costume  being  quite 
perceivable  at  Staines,  where  there  passed  a 
young  fellow  44  with  a very  tolerable  periwig,” 
though,  to  be  sure,  his  hat  was  out  of  fashion, 
and  had  a Ramillies  cock.  I would  have  liked 
to  travel  in  those  days  (being  of  that  class  of 
travellers  who  are  proverbially  pretty  easy 
coram  latronibus)  and  have  seen  my  friend 
with  the  gray  mare  and  the  black  vizard. 
Alas  ! there  always  came  a day  in  the  life  of 
that  warrior  when  it  was  the  fashion  to  accom- 
pany him  as  he  passed  — without  his  black 
mask,  and  with  a nosegay  in  his  hand,  accom- 
panied by  halberdiers  and  attended  bv  the 
sheriff  — in  a carriage  without  springs,  and  a 
clergyman  jolting  beside  him,  to  a spot  close 
by  Cumberland  Gate  and  the  Marble  Arch, 
where  a stone  still  records  that  here  Tyburn 


104 


ENGLISH  HUMOBISTS. 


turnpike  stood.  What  a change  in  a century, 
in  a few  years  ! Within  a few  yards  of  that 
gate  the  fields  began  : the  fields  of  his  exploits, 
behind  the  hedges  of  which  he  lurked  and 
robbed . A great  and  wealthy  city  has  grown 
over  those  meadows.  Were  a man  brought  to 
die  there  now,  the  windows  would  be  closed 
and  the  inhabitants  keep  their  houses  in  sick- 
ening horror.  A hundred  years  back,  people 
crowded  to  see  that  last  act  of  a highwayman’s 
life,  and  make  jokes  on  it.  Swift  laughed  at 
him,  grimly  advising  him  to  provide  a Holland 
shirt  and  white  cap  crowned  with  a crimson  or 
black  ribbon  for  his  exit,  to  mount  the  cart 
cheerfully  — shake  hands  with  the  hangman, 
and  so  — farewell.  Gay  wrote  the  most 
delightful  ballads,  and  made  merry  over  the 
same  hero.  Contrast  these  with  the  writings 
of  our  present  humorists ! Compare  those 
morals  and  ours — those  manners  and  ours! 

We  can’t  tell  — you  would  not  bear  to  be 
told  the  whole  truth  regarding  those  men  and 
manners.  You  could  no  more  suffer  in  a Brit- 
ish drawing-room,  under  the  reign  of  Queen 
Victoria,  a fine  gentleman  or  fine  lady  of 
Queen  Anne’s  time,  or  hear  what  they  heard 
and  said,  than  you  would  receive  an  ancient 
Briton.  It  is  as  one  reads  about  savages, 
that  one  contemplates  the  wild  ways,  the  bar- 
barous feasts,  the  terrific  pastimes,  of  the  men 
of  pleasure  of  that  age.  We  have  our  fine 
gentlemen,  and  our  ‘kfast  men”;  permit  me 
to  give  you  an  idea  of  one  particularly  fast 
nobleman  of  Queen  Anne’s  days,  whose  biog- 


STEELE . 


105 


raphy  has  been  preserved  to  us  by  the  lav- 
reporters. 

In  1691,  when  Steele  was  a boy  at  school, 
my  Lord  Mohun  was  tried  by  his  peers  for  the 
murder  of  William  Mountford,  comedian.  In 
“ Howell’s  State  Trials,”  the  reader  will  find 
not  only  an  edifying  account  of  this  exceed- 
ingly fast  nobleman,  but  of  the  times  and 
manners  of  those  days.  Mv  lord’s  friend,  a 
Captain  Hill,  smitten  with  the  charms  of  the 
beautiful  Mrs.  Bracegirdle,  and  anxious  to 
marry  her  at  all  hazards,  determined  to  carry 
her  off,  and  for  this  purpose  hired  a hackney- 
coach  with  six  horses,  and  a half-dozen  of 
soldiers,  to  aid  him  in  the  storm.  The  coach 
with  a pair  of  horses  (the  four  leaders  being 
in  waiting  elsewhere)  took  its  station  opposite 
my  Lord  Craven’s  house  in  Drury  Lane,  by 
which  door  Mrs.  Bracegirdle  was  to  pass  on 
her  way  from  the  theatre.  As  she  passed  in 
company  of  her  mamma  and  a friend,  Mr. 
Page,  the  Captain  seized  her  by  the  hand,  the 
soldiers  hustled  Mr.  Page  and  attacked  him 
sword  in  hand,  and  Captain  Hill  and  his  noble 
friend  endeavored  to  force  Madam  Bracegirdle 
into  the  coach.  Mr.  Page  called  for  help  : 
the  population  of  Drury  Lane  rose  : it  was 
impossible  to  effect  the  capture  ; and  bidding 
the  soldiers  go  about  their  business,  and  the 
coach  to  drive  off,  Hill  let  go  of  his  prejr  sulk- 
ily, and  waited  for  other  opportunities  of 
revenge.  The  man  of  whom  he  was  most  jeal- 
ous was  Will  Mountford,  the  comedian  ; Will 
removed,  he  thought  Mrs.  Bracegirdle  might 


106 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


be  his ; and  accordingly  the  Captain  and  his 
lordship  lay  that  night  in  wait  for  Will,  and 
as  he  was  coming  out  of  a house  in  Norfolk 
Street,  while  Mohun  engaged  him  in  talk,  Hill, 
in  the  words  of  the  Attorney-General,  made  a 
pass  and  ran  him  clean  through  the  body. 

Sixty-one  of  my  lord’s  peers  finding  him  not 
guilty  of  murder,  while  but  fourteen  found 
him  guilty,  this  very  fast  nobleman  was  dis- 
charged ; and  made  his  appearance  seven 
years  after  in  another  trial  for  murder,  when 
he,  my  Lord  Warwick,  and  three  gentlemen  of 
the  military  profession,  were  concerned  in  the 
fight  which  ended  in  the  death  of  Captain 
Coote. 

This  jolly  company  were  drinking  together 
in  u Lockit’s  ” at  Charing  Cross,  when  angry 
words  arose  between  Captain  Coote  and  Cap- 
tain French  ; whom  my  Lord  Mohun  and  my 
Lord  the  Earl  of  Warwick*  and  Holland  en- 
deavored to  pacify.  My  Lord  Warwick  was 
a dear  friend  of  Captain  Coote,  lent  him  a 


* The  husband  of  the  Lady  Warwick  who  married  Addison, 
and  the  father  of  the  young  Earl,  who  was  brought  to  his  step- 
father’s bed  to  see  “ how  a Christian  could  die.”  He  was 
amongst  the  wildest  of  the  nobility  of  that  day;  and  in  the  curi- 
ous collection  of  Chap-Books  at  the  British  Museum,  I have 
seen  more  than  one  anecdote  of  the  freaks  of  the  gay  lord.  He 
was  popular  in  London,  as  such  daring  spirits  have  been  in  our 
time.  The  anecdotists  speak  very  kindly  of  his  practical  jokes. 
Mohun  was  scarcely  out  of  prison  for  his  second  homicide, 
when  he  went  on  Lord  Macclesfield’s  embassy  to  the  Elector  of 
Hanover,  when  Queen  Anne  sent  the  garter  to  his  Highness. 
The  chronicler  of  the  expedition  speaks  of  his  lordship  as  an 
amiable  young  man,  who  had  been  in  bad  company,  but  was 
quite  repentant  and  reformed.  He  and  Macartney  afterwards 
murdered  the  Duke  of  Hamilton  between  them,  in  which  act 
Lord  Mohun  died.  This  amiable  baron’s  name  was  Charles, 
and  not  Henry,  as  a recent  novelist  has  christened  him. 


STEELE . 


107 


hundred  pounds  to  buy  his  commission  in  the 
Guards ; once  when  the  Captain  was  arrested 
for  £13  by  his  tailor,  my  lord  lent  him  five 
guineas,  often  paid  his  reckoning  for  him,  and 
showed  him  other  offices  of  friendship.  On 
this  evening  the  disputants,  French  and  Coote, 
being  separated  whilst  they  were  upstairs, 
unluckily  stopped  to  drink  ale  again  at  the 
bar  of  Lockit’s.”  The  row  began  afresh  — 
Coote  lunged  at  French  over  the  bar,  and  at 
last  all  six  called  for  chairs,  and  went  to 
Leicester  Fields,  where  they  fell  to.  Their 
lordships  engaged  on  the  side  of  Captain 
Coote.  My  Lord  of  Warwick  was  severely 
wounded  in  the  hand,  Mr.  French  also  was 
stabbed,  but  honest  Captain  Coote  got  a 
couple  of  wounds  — one  especially,  44  a wound 
in  the  left  side  just  under  the  short  ribs,  and 
piercing  through  the  diaphragm  a,”  wrhich  did 
for  Captain  Coote.  Hence  the  trials  of  my 
Lords  Warwick  and  Mohun  ; hence  the  assem- 
blage of  peers,  the  report  of  the  transaction  in 
which  these  defunct  fast  men  still  live  for  the 
observation  of  the  curious.  My  Lord  of  War- 
wick is  brought  to  the  bar  by  the  Deputy  Gov- 
ernor of  the  Tower  of  London,  having  the  axe 
carried  before  him  by  the  gentleman  gaoler, 
who  stood  with  it  at  the  bar  at  the  right  hand 
of  the  prisoner,  turning  the  edge  from  him  ; 
the  prisoner,  at  his  approach,  making  three 
bows,  one  to  his  Grace  the  Lord  High  Stew- 
ard, the  other  to  the  peers  on  each  hand  ; and 
his  Grace  and  the  peers  return  the  salute. 
And  besides  these  great  personages,  august  in 


108 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


periwigs,  and  nodding  to  the  right  and  left,  a 
host  of  the  small  come  lip  out  of  the  past  and 
pass  before  us  — the  jolly  captains  Drawling 
in  the  tavern,  and  laughing  and  cursing  over 
their  cups  — the  drawer  that  serves,  the  bar- 
girl  that  waits,  the  bailiff  on  the  prowl,  the 
chairmen  trudging  through  the  black  lampless 
streets,  and  smoking  their  pipes,  by  the  rail- 
ings, whilst  swords  are  clashing  in  the  garden 
within.  u Help  there  ! a gentleman  is  hurt ! ” 
The  chairmen  put  up  their  pipes,  and  help  the 
gentleman  over  the  railings,  and  carry  him, 
ghastly  and  bleeding,  to  the  Bagnio,  in  Long 
Acre,  where  they  knock  up  the  surgeon — a 
pretty  tall  gentleman  : but  that  wound  under 
the  short  ribs  has  done  for  him.  Surgeon, 
lords,  captains,  bailiffs,  chairmen,  and  gentle- 
man gaoler  with  your  axe,  where  be  you  now? 
The  gentleman  axeman’s  head  is  off  his  own 
shoulders  ; the  lords  and  judges  can  wag  theirs 
no  longer ; the  bailiff’s  writs  have  ceased  to 
run  ; the  honest  chairmen’s  pipes  are  put  out, 
and  with  their  brawny  calves  they  have  walked 
away  into  Hades  — alias  irrecoverably  done 
for  as  Will  Mountford  or  Captain  Coote.  The 
subject  of  our  night’s  lecture  saw  all  these 
people  — rode  in  Captain  Coote’s  company  of 
the  Guards  very  probably  — wrote  and  sighed 
for  Bracegirdle,  went  home  tipsy  in  many  a 
chair,  after  many  a bottle,  in  many  a tavern — - 
fled  from  many  a bailiff. 

In  1709,  when  the  publication  of  the  Tatlev 
began,  our  great-great-grandfathers  must  have 
seized  upon  that  new  and  delightful  paper 


STEELE. 


109 

with  much  such  eagerness  as  lovers  of  light 
literature  in  a later  day  exhibited  when  the 
Waverley  novels  appeared,  upon  which  the 
public  rushed,  forsaking  that  feeble  entertain- 
ment of  which  the  Miss  Porters,  the  Anne  of 
Swanseas,  and  worthy  Mrs.  Radcliffe  herself, 
with  her  dreary  castles  and  exploded  old 
ghosts,  had  had  pretty  much  the  monopoly.  I 
have  looked  over  many  of  the  comic  books 
with  which  our  ancestors  amusi  d themselves, 
from  the  novels  of  Swift’s  coadjutrix,  Mrs. 
Manley,  the  delectable  author  of  the  “ New' 
Atlantis,”  to  the  facetious  productions  of  Tom 
Durfey,  and  Tom  Brown,  and  Ned  Ward, 
writer  of  the  u London  Spy  99  and  several  other 
volumes  of  ribaldry.  The  slang  of  the  taverns 
and  ordinaries,  the  writ  of  the  Bagnios,  form 
the  strongest  part  of  the  farrago  of  which 
these  libels  are  composed.  In  the  excellent 
newspaper  collection  at  the  British  Museum, 
you  may  see,  besides,  the  Craftsmen  and  Post- 
boy specimens,  and  queer  specimens  they  are, 
of  the  higher  literature  of  Queen  Anne’s  time. 
Here  is  an  abstract  from  a notable  journal 
bearing  date  Wednesday,  October  13,  1708, 
and  entitled  The  British  Apollo ; cr,  curious 
amusements  for  the  ingenious , by  a society  of 
gentlemen.  The  British  Apollo  invited  and 
professed  to  answer  questions  upon  all  sub- 
jects of  wit,  morality,  science,  and  even  re- 
ligion ; and  twro  out  of  its  four  pages  are  filled 
with  queries  and  replies  much  like  some  of  the 
oracular  penny  prints  of  the  present  time. 

One  of  the  first  querists,  referring  to  the 


iiO  ENGLISH  HUMOBISTS. 

passage  that  a bishop  should  be  the  husband 
of  one  wife,  argues  that  polygamy  is  justifi- 
able  in  the  laity.  The  society  of  gentlemen 
conducting  the  British  Apollo  are  posed  by 
this  casuist,  and  promise  to  give  him  an 
answer.  Celinda  then  wishes  to  know  from 
“ the  gentleman/’  concerning  the  souls  of  the 
dead,  whether  they  shall  have  the  satisfaction 
to  know  those  whom  they  most  valued  in  this 
transitory  life.  The  gentlemen  of  the  Apollo 
give  but  poor  comfort  to  poor  Celinda.  They 
are  inclined  to  think  not ; for,  say  they,  since 
every  inhabitant  of  those  regions  will  be  in- 
finitely dearer  than  here  are  our  nearest  rela- 
tives, what  have  we  to  do  with  a partial 
friendship  in  that  happy  place?  Poor  Ce- 
linda ! it  may  have  been  a child  or  a lover 
whom  she  had  lost,  and  was  pining  after, 
when  the  oracle  of  British  Apollo  gave  her 
this  dismal  answer.  She  has  solved  the  ques- 
tion foi  herself  by  this  time,  and  knows  quite 
as  well  as  the  society  of  gentlemen. 

From  theology  we  come  to  physics,  and 
Q.  asks,  u Why  does  hot  water  freeze  sooner 
than  cold  ! ” Apollo  replies,  “ Hot  water  can- 
not be  said  to  freeze  sooner  than  cold ; but 
water  once  heated  and  cold,  may  be  subject 
to  freeze  by  the  evaporation  of  the  spirituous 
parts  of  the  water,  which  renders  it  less  able 
to  withstand  the  power  of  frosty  weather.” 

The  next  query  is  rather  a delicate  one. 
u You,  Mr.  Apollo,  who  are  said  to  be  the 
God  of  wisdom,  pray  give  us  the  reason  why 
kissing  is  so  much  in  fashion  : what  benefit 


STEELE. 


Ill 


one  receives  by  it,  and  who  was  the  inventor, 
and  you  will  oblige  Corinna.”  To  this  queer 
demand  the  lips  of  Phoebus,  smiling,  answer : 
‘‘  Pretty  innocent  Corinna  ! Apollo  owns  that 
he  was  a little  surprised  by  your  kissing  ques- 
tion, particularly  at  that  part  of  it  where  you 
desire  to  know  the  benefit  you  receive  by  it. 
Ah  ! madam,  had  you  a lover,  you  would  not 
come  to  Apollo  for  a solution ; since  there  is 
no  dispute  but  the  kisses  of  mutual  lovers 
give  infinite  satisfaction.  As  to  its  inven- 
tion, ’tis  certain  nature  was  its  author,  and  it 
began  with  the  first  courtship. ” 

After  a column  more  of  questions,  follow 
nearly  two  pages  of  poems,  signed  by  Philan- 
der, Armenia,  and  the  like,  and  chiefly  on  the 
tender  passion ; and  the  paper  winds  up  with 
a letter  from  Leghorn,  an  account  of  the 
Duke  of  Marlborough  and  Prince  Eugene  be- 
fore Lille,  and  proposals  for  publishing  two 
sheets  on  the  present  state  of  ^Ethiopia,  by 
Mr.  Hill ; all  of  which  is  printed  for  the 
authors  by  J.  Mayo,  at  the  Printing  Press 
against  Water  Lane  in  Fleet  Street.  What 
a change  it  must  have  been  — how  Ap>ollo’s 
oracles  must  have  been  struck  dumb,  when 
the  Tcitler  appeared,  and  scholars,  gentlemen, 
men  of  the  world,  men  of  genius,  began  to 
speak  ! 

Shortly  before  the  Boyne  was  fought,  and 
young  Swift  had  begun  to  make  acquaint- 
ance with  English  Court  manners  and  English 
servitude,  in  Sir  William  Temple’s  family, 
another  Irish  youth  was  brought  to  learn  his 


112 


ENGLISH  HUMOBISTS . 


humanities  at  the  old  school  of  Charterhouse, 
near  Smithfield  ; to  which  foundation  he  had 
been  appointed  by  James  Duke  of  Ormond, 
a governor  of  the  House,  and  a patron  of  the 
lad’s  family.  The  boy  was  an  orphan,  and 
described,  twenty  years  after,  with  a sweet 
pathos  and  simplicity,  some  of  the  earliest 
recollections  of  a life  which  was  destined  to 
be  checkered  by  a strange  variety  of  good 
and  evil  fortune. 

I am  afraid  no  good  report  could  be  given 
by  his  masters  and  ushers  of  that  thick-set, 
square-faced,  black-eyed,  soft-hearted  little 
Irish  boy.  He  was  very  idle.  He  was 
whipped  deservedly  a great  number  of  times. 
Though  he  had  very  good  parts  of  his  own, 
he  got  other  boys  to  do  his  lessons  for  him, 
and  only  took  just  as  much  trouble  as  should 
enable  him  to  scuffle  through  his  exercises, 
and  by  good  fortune  escape  the  flogging- 
block.  One  hundred  and  fifty  years  after,  I 
have  myself  inspected,  but  only  as  an  ama- 
teur, that  instrument  of  righteous  torture  still 
existing,  and  in  occasional  use,  in  a secluded 
private  apartment  of  the  old  Charterhouse 
School ; and  have  no  doubt  it  is  the  very 
counterpart,  if  not  the  ancient  and  interest- 
ing machine  itself,  at  which  poor  Dick  Steele 
submitted  himself  to  the  tormentors. 

Besides  being  very  kind,  lazy,  and  good- 
natured,  this  boy  went  invariably  into  debt 
with  the  tart- woman  ; ran  out  of  bounds,  and 
entered  into  pecuniary,  or  rather  promissory, 
engagements  with  the  neighboring  lollipop- 


STEELE. 


113 


renders  and  piemen ; exhibited  an  early 
fondness  and  capacity  for  drinking  mum  and 
sack,  and  borrowed  from  all  his  comrades 
who  had  money  to  lend.  I have  no  sort  of 
authority  for  the  statements  here  made  of 
Steele’s  early  life  ; but  if  the  child  is  father 
of  the  man,  the  father  of  young  Steele  of 
Merton,  who  left  Oxford  without  taking  a 
degree,  and  entered  the  Life  Guards  — the 
father  of  Captain  Steele  of  Lucas’s  Fusiliers, 
who  got  his  company  through  the  patronage 
of  my  Lord  Cutts  — the  father  of  Mr.  Steele 
the  Commissioner  of  Stamps,  the  editor  of 
the  Gazet'e , the  Tat’er , and  Spectator , the  ex- 
pelled Member  of  Parliament,  and  the  author 
of  the  “Tender  Husband”  and  the  “Con- 
scious Lovers  ” ; if  man  and  boy  resembled 
each  other,  Dick  Steele  the  school-boy  must 
have  been  one  of  the  most  generous,  good-for- 
nothing,  amiable  little  creatures  that  ever 
conjugated  the  verb  tupto , I beat,  tuptomai , 
I am  whipped,  in  any  school  in  Great  Britain. 

Almost  every  gentleman  who  does  me  the 
honor  to  hear  me  will  remember  that  the 
very  greatest  character  which  he  has  seen  in 
the  course  of  his  life,  and  the  person  to  whom 
he  has  looked  up  with  the  greatest  wonder  and 
reverence,  was  the  head  boy  at  his  school. 
The  schoolmaster  himself  hardly  inspires  such 
an  awe.  The  head  boy  construes  as  well  as 
the  schoolmaster  himself.  When  he  begins 
to  speak,  the  hall  is  hushed,  and  every  little 
boy  listens.  He  writes  off  copies  of  Latin 
verses  as  melodiously  as  Virgil.  He  is  good- 
8 


114 


EXGLISII  HUMORISTS. 


natured,  and,  his  own  masterpieces  achieved, 
pours  out  other  copies  of  verses  for  other 
boys  with  an  astonishing  ease  and  fluency  ; 
the  idle  ones  only  trembling  lest  they  should 
be  discovered  on  giving  in  their  exercises  and 
whipped  because  their  poems  were  too  good. 
I have  seen  great  men  in  my  time,  but  never 
such  a great  one  as  that  head  boy  of  my 
childhood  ; we  all  thought  he  must  be  Prime 
Minister,  and  I was  disappointed  on  meeting 
him  in  after  life  to  find  he  was  no  more  than 
six  feet  high. 

Dick  Steele,  the  Charterhouse  gownboy,  con- 
tracted such  an  admiration  in  the  years  of  his 
childhood,  and  retained  it  faithfully  through 
his  life.  Through  the  school  and  through 
the  world,  whithersoever  his  strange  fortune 
led  this  erring,  wayward,  affectionate  creature, 
Joseph  Addison  was  always  his  head  boy. 
Addison  wrote  his  exercises.  Addison  did 
his  best  themes.  He  ran  on  Addison’s  mes- 
sages ; fagged  for  him  and  blacked  his  shoes  : 
to  be  in  Joe’s  company  was  Dick’s  greatest 
pleasure  ; and  he  took  a sermon  or  a caning 
from  his  monitor  with  the  most  boundless 
reverence,  acquiescence,  and  affection.* 

Steele  found  Addison  a stately  college  Don 
at  Oxford,  and  himself  did  not  make  much 


*“  Steele  had  the  greatest  veneration  for  Addison,  and  used 
to  show  it,  in  all  companies,  in  a particular  manner.  Addison, 
now  and  then,  used  to  play  a little  upon  him;  but  he  always 
took  it  well.”  — Pope.  Spence's  Anecdotes. 

“ Sir  Richard  Steele  was  the  best  natured  creature  in  the 
world : even  in  his  worst  state  of  health,  he  seemed  to  desire 
nothing  but  to  please  and  be  pleased.”  — Dr.  Young.  Spence's 
Anecdotes. 


STEELE. 


115 


figure  at  this  place.  He  wrote  a comedy, 
which,  by  the  advice  of  a friend,  the  humble 
fellow  burned  there  ; and  some  verses,  which 
I dare  say  are  as  sublime  as  other  gentle- 
men’s compositions  at  that  age ; but  being 
smitten  with  a sudden  love  for  military  glory, 
he  threw  up  the  cap  and  gown  for  the  saddle 
and  bridle,  and  rode  privately  in  the  Horse 
Guards,  in  the  Duke  of  Ormond’s  troop  — 
the  second  — and,  probably,  with  the  rest  of 
the  gentlemen  of  his  troop,  all  mounted  on 
black  horses  with  white  feathers  in  their  hats, 
and  scarlet  coats  richly  laced,”  marched  by 
King  William,  in  Hyde  Park,  in  November, 
1699,  and  a great  show  of  the  nobility,  be- 
sides twenty  thousand  people,  and  above  a 
thousand  ci  aches.  u The  Guards  had  just 
got  their  new  clothes,”  the  London  Post  said  ; 
“they  are  extraordinary  grand,  and  thought 
to  be  the  finest  body  of  horse  in  the  world.” 
But  Steele  could  hardly  have  seen  any  actual 
service.  He  who  wrote  about  himself,  his 
mother,  his  vife,  his  loves,  his  debts,  his 
friends,  and  the  wine  he  drank,  would  have 
told  us  of  his  battles  if  lie  had  seen  any. 
His  old  patron,  Ormond,  probably  got  him 
his  cornetcy  in  the  Guards,  from  which  he 
was  promoted  to  be  a captain  in  Lucas’s 
Fusiliers,  getting  his  company  through  the 
patronage  of  Lord  Cutts,  whose  secretary  he 
was,  and  to  whom  he  dedicated  his  work 
called  the  u Christian  Hero.”  As  for  Dick, 
whilst  writing  this  ardent  devotional  work, 
he  was  deep  in  debt,  in  drink,  and  in  all  the 


116 


ENGLISH  H U MOB  IS  TS. 


follies  of  the  town  ; it  is  related  that  all  the 
officers  of  Lucas’s,  and  the  gentlemen  of  the 
Guards,  laughed  at  Dick.*  And  in  truth  a 
theologian  in  liquor  is  not  a respectable  ob- 
ject, and  a hermit,  though  he  may  be  out  at 
elbows,  must  not  be  in  debt  to  the  tailor. 
Steele  says  of  himself  that  he  was  always 
sinning  and  repenting.  lie  beat  his  breast 
and  cried  most  piteously  when  he  did  repent : 
but  as  soon  as  crying  had  made  him  thirsty, 


* “ The  gayety  of  his  dramatic  tone  may  be  seen  in  this 
little  scene  between  two  brilliant  sisters,  from  his  comedy  “ The 
Funeral,  or  Grief  a la  Mode.”  Dick  wrote  this,  he  said,  from 
“a  necessity  of  enlivening  his  character,”  which,  it  seemed,  the 
“Christian  Hero  ” had  a tendency  to  make  too  decorous,  grave, 
and  respectable  in  the  eyes  of  readers  of  that  pious  piece. 

[ Scene  draws  and  discovers  Lady  Charlotte,  reading  at  a 
table ; Lady  Harriet,  playing  at  a glass  to  and  froy  and 
viewing  herself.] 

L.  Ha.  Nay,  good  sister,  you  may  as  well  talk  to  me  [looking 
at  herself  as  she  spe  ks  1 as  sit  staring  at  a book  which  I know 
you  can’t  attend.  Good  Dr.  Lucas  may  have  writ  there  what 
he  pleases,  but  there ’s  no  putting  Francis,  Lord  Hardy,  now 
Earl  of  Brumpton,  out  of  your  head,  or  making  him  absent 
from  your  eyes.  Do  but  look  on  me  now,  and  deny  it  if  you  can. 
L.  Ch.  You  are  the  maddest  girl  [smiling] . 

L.  Ila.  Look  ye,  I knew  you  could  not  say  it  and  forbear 
laughing.  [Looking  over  Charlotte.]  Oh!  I see  his  name, 
as  plain  as  you  do  — F-r-a-n,  Fran,  — c i-s,  Francis,  ’t  is  in 
every  line  of  the  book. 

L.  Ch.  [rising].  It’s  in  vain,  I see,  to  mind  anything  in 
such  impertinent  company;  but,  granting  ’twere  as  you  say, 
as  to  my  Lord  Hardy,  ’t  is  more  excusable  to  admire  another 
than  one’s  self. 

I.  Ha.  No,  I think  not,  — yes,  I grant  you,  than  really  to 
be  vain  of  one’s  person,  but  I don’t  admire  myself,  — Pish!  I 
don’t  believe  my  eyes  to  have  that  softness.  [Looking  in  the 
glass.]  They  a’n’t  so  piercing:  no,  ’t is  only  stuff,  the  men  will 
be  talking.  Some  people  are  such  admirers  of  teeth — Lord, 
what  signifies  teeth?  [Showing  her  teeth.]  A very  black-a- 
moor  has  as  white  a set  of  teeth  as  I.  No,  sister,  I don’t  ad- 
mire myself,  but  I ’ve  a spirit  of  contradiction  in  me : I don’t 
know  I ’m  in  love  with  myself,  only  to  rival  the  men. 

L.  Ch.  Ay,  but  Mr.  Campley  will  gain  ground  ev’n  of  that 
rival  of  his,  your  dear  self. 

L.  Ha.  Oh,  what  have  I done  to  you,  that  you  should  name 


STEELE. 


117 


he  fell  to  sinning  again.  In  that  charming 
paper  in  the  T. tier,  in  which  he  records  his 
father’s  death,  his  mother’s  griefs,  his  own 
most  solemn  and  tender  emotion*,  he  says  he 
is  interrupted  by  the  arrival  of  a hamper  of 
wine,  u the  same  as  is  to  be  sold  at  Garra- 
way’s,  next  week”  ; upon  the  receipt  of  which 
lie  sends  for  three  friends,  and  they  fall  to  in- 
stantly, 6 ‘drinking  two  bottles  apiece,  with 
great  benefit  to  themselves,  and  not  separat- 
ing till  two  o’clock  in  the  morning.” 

His  life  was  so.  Jack  the  drawer  was  al- 


that  insolent  intruder?  A confident,  opinionative  fop.  No,  in- 
deed, if  I am,  as  a poetical  lover  of  mine  sighed  and  sung  of 
both  sexes, 

The  public  envy  and  the  public  care, 

I sha’n’t  be  so  easily  catched  — I thank  him  — T want  but  to  be 
sure  I should  heartily  torment  him  by  banishing  him,  and  then 
consider  whether  he  should  depart  this  life  or  not. 

L.  Ch.  Indeed,  sister,  to  be  serious  with  you,  this  vanity  in 
your  humor  does  not  at  all  become  you. 

L.  Ha.  Vanity!  All  the  matter  is,  we  gay  people  are  more 
sincere  than  you  wise  folks  : all  your  life’s  an  art.  Speak  your 
soul.  Look  you  there.  | Hauling  her  to  the  glass.  J Are  you 
not  struck  with  a secret  pleasure  when  you  view  that  bloom  in 
your  look,  that  harmony  in  your  shape,  that  promptitude  in 
your  mien? 

L.  Ch.  Well,  simpleton,  if  I am  at  first  so  simple  as  to  be  a 
little  taken  with  myself,  I know  it  a fault,  and  take  pains  to 
correct  it. 

L.  Ha.  Pshaw!  Pshaw!  Talk  this  musty  tale  to  old  Mrs. 
Fardingale,  ’t  is  too  soon  for  me  to  think  at  that  rate. 

L.  Ch.  They  that  think  it  too  soon  to  understand  themselves 
Avill  very  soon  find  it  too  late.  But  tell  me  honestly,  don’t  you 
like  Campley? 

L.  11a.  The  fellow  is  not  to  be  abhorred,  if  the  forward 
thing  did  not  think  of  getting  me  so  easily.  Oh,  I hate  a heart 
I can’t  break  when  1 please.  What  makes  the  value  of  dear 
china,  but  that  ’t  is  so  brittle?  — were  it  not  for  that,  you 
might  as  well  have  stone  mugs  in  your  closet  — The  Funeral , 
Oct.  2. 

“ We  knew  the  obligations  the  stage  had  to  his  writings 
[Steele’s] ; there  being  scarcely  a comedian  of  merit  in  our 
whole  company  whom  his  Tatters  had  not  made  better  by  his 
recommendation  of  them.”  — Cibber, 


118 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


ways  interrupting  it,  bringing  him  a bottle 
from  the  “ Eose,”  or  inviting  him  over  to 
a bout  there  with  Sir  Plume  and  Mr.  Diver  ; 
and  Dick  wiped  his  eyes,  which  were  whim- 
pering over  his  papers,  took  down  his  laced 
hat,  put  on  his  sword  and  wig,  kissed  his  wife 
and  children,  told  them  a lie  about  pressing 
business,  and  went  off  to  the  “ Eose  ” to  the 
jolly  fellows. 

While  Mr.  Addison  was  abroad,  and  after 
lie  came  home  in  rather  a dismal  way  to  wait 
upon  Providence  in  his  shabby  lodging  in  the 
Haymarket,  young  Captain  Steele  was  cutting 
a much  smarter  figure  than  that  of  his  classical 
friend  of  Charterhouse  Cloister  and  Maudlin 
Walk.  Could  not  some  painter  give  an  inter- 
view between  the  gallant  Captain  of  Lucas’s, 
with  his  hat  cocked,  and  his  lace,  and  face  too, 
a trifle  tarnished  with  drink,  and  that  poet, 
that  philosopher,  pale,  proud,  and  poor,  his 
friend  and  monitor  of  school-days,  of  all  days? 
How  Dick  must  have  bragged  about  his 
chances  and  his  hopes,  and  the  fine  company 
he  kept,  and  the  charms  of  the  reigning  toasts 
and  popular  actresses,  and  the  number  of 
bottles  that  he  and  mv  lord  and  some  other 
pretty  fellows  had  cracked  over  night  at  the 
“Devil,”  or  the  “ Garter”!  Cannot  one 
fancy  Joseph  Addison’s  calm  smile  and  cold 
gray  eyes  following  Dick  for  an  instant,  as  he 
struts  down  the  Mall  to  dine  with  the  Guard  at 
St.  James’s  before  he  turns,  with  his  sober 
pace  and  threadbare  suit,  to  walk  back  to  his 
lodgings  up  the  two  pair  of  stairs  ? Steele’s 


STEELE. 


119 


name  was  down  for  promotion,  Dick  always 
said  himself,  in  the  glorious,  pious,  and  im- 
mortal William’s  last  table-book.  Jonathan 
Swift’s  name  had  been  written  there  by  the 
same  hand  too. 

Our  worthy  friend,  the  author  of  the 
u Christian  Hero,”  continued  to  make  no  small 
figure  about  town  by  the  use  of  his  wits.*  He 
was  appointed  Gazetteer:  he  wrote,  in  1703, 
“ The  Tender  Husband,”  his  second  play,  in 
which  there  is  some  delightful  farcical  writing, 
and  of  which  he  fondly  owned  in  after  life, 
and  when  Addison  was  no  more,  that  there 
were  “ many  applauded  strokes  ” from  Addi- 
son’s beloved  hand.f  Is  it  not  a pleasant 
partnership  to  remember?  Can’t  one  fancy 
Steele  full  of  spirits  and  youth,  leaving  his 
gay  company  to  go  to  Addison’s  lodging, 
where  his  friend  sits  in  the  shabby  sitting - 


* “ There  is  not  now  in  his  sight  that  excellent  man,  whom 
Heaven  made  his  friend  and  superior,  to  be  at  a certain  place 
in  pain  for  what  he  should  say  or  do.  I will  go  on  in  his  fur- 
ther encouragement.  The  best  woman  that  ever  man  had  can- 
not now  lament  and  pine  at  his  neglect  of  himself.”  — Steele 
[of  himself],  The  Theatre.  No.  32,  Feb.  1719-20 

f“  The  Funeral”  supplies  an  admirable  stroke  of  humor, 
— one  which  Sydney  Smith  has  used  as  an  illustration  of  the 
faculty  in  his  Lectures. 

The  undertaker  is  talking  to  his  employe  about  their  duty. 
Sable. — “Ha,  you ! — A little  more  upon  the  dismal 
[, forming  their  countenances ];  this  fellow  has  a good  mortal 
look,  — place  him  near  the  corpse;  that  wainecot-face  must  be 
o’ top  of  the  stairs;  that  fellow ’s  almost  in  a fright  that  looks 
as  if  he  were  full  of  some  strange  misery)  at  the  end  of  the  hall. 
So  — But  I’ll  fix  you  all  myself.  Let’s  have  no  laughing  now 
on  any  provocation.  Look  yonder,  — that  hale,  well-looking 
puppy!  You  ungrateful  scoundrel,  did  not  I pity  you,  take 
you  out  of  a great  man’s  service,  and  show  you  the  pleasure  of 
receiving  wages?  Did  not  I give  you  ten , then  fifteen , and 
twenty  shillings  a week  to  be  sorrowful  ? ~ and  the  more  I give 
you  I think  the  gladder  you  are  !*9 


120 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


room,  quite  serene,  and  cheerful,  and  poor? 
In  1704,  Steele  came  on  the  town  with  another 
comedy,  and  behold  it  was  so  moral  and  reli- 
gious, as  poor  Dick  insisted,  — so  dull  the 
town  thought,  — that  the  “ Lying  Lover  ” 
was  damned. 

Addison’s  hour  of  success  now  came,  and 
he  was  able  to  help  our  friend  the  “Christain 
Hero  ” in  such  a way,  that,  if  there  had  been 
any  chance  of  keeping  that  poor  tipsy  champion 
upon  his  legs,  his  fortune  was  safe,  and  his 
competence  assured.  Steele  procured  the  place 
of  Commissioner  of  Stamps ; he  wrote  so 
richly,  so  gracefully  often,  so  kindly  always, 
with  such  a pleasant  wit  and  easy  frankness, 
with  such  a gush  of  good  spirits  and  good- 
humor,  that  his  early  papers  may  be  compared 
to  Addison’s  own,  and  are  to  be  read,  by  a 
male  reader  at  least,  with  quite  an  equal 
pleasure.* 

After  the  Tatler  in  1711,  the  famous  Spec- 


* “From  my  own  Apartment,  Nov.  16. 

“There  are  several  persons  who  have  many  pleasures  and 
entertainments  in  their  possession,  which  they  do  not  enjoy;  it 
is,  therefore,  a kind  and  good  office  to  acquaint  them  with  their 
own  happiness,  and  turn  their  attention  to  such  instances  of 
their  good  fortune  as  they  are  apt  to  overlook.  Persons  in  the 
married  state  often  want  such  a monitor ; and  pine  away  their 
days  by  looking  upon  the  same  condition  in  anguish  and  mur- 
muring, which  carries  with  it,  in  the  opinion  of  others,  a com- 
plication of  all  the  pleasures  of  life,  and  a retreat  from  its 
inquietudes. 

“I  am  led  into  this  thought  by  a visit  I made  to  an  old  friend 
who  was  formerly  my  school  fellow.  He  came  to  town  last 
week,  with  his  family,  for  the  winter;  and  yesterday  morning 
sent  me  word  his  wife  expected  me  to  dinner.  I am,  as  it  were, 
at  home  at  that  house,  and  every  member  of  it  knows  me  for 
their  well-wisher.  I cannot,  indeed,  express  the  pleasure  it  is 
to  be  met  by  the  children  with  so  much  joy  as  I am  when  I go 
thither.  The  boys  and  girls  strive  who  shall  come  first,  when 


STEELE. 


121 


tator  made  its  appearance,  and  this  was  fol- 
lowed, at  various  intervals,  by  many  periodi- 
cals under  the  same  editor — the  Guardian  — 
the  Englishman  — the  Lover , whose  love  was 

they  think  it  is  I that  am  knocking  at  the  door;  and  that  child 
which  loses  the  race  to  me  runs  back  again  to  tell  the  father  it 
is  Mr.  Bickerstaff.  This  day  I was  led  in  by  a pretty  girl  that 
we  all  thought  must  have  forgot  me ; for  the  family  has  been  out 
of  town  these  two  years.  Her  knowing  me  again  was  a mighty 
subject  with  us,  and  took  up  our  discourse  at  the  first  entrance; 
after  which,  they  began  to  rally  me  upon  a thousand  little  sto- 
ries they  heard  in  the  country,  about  my  marriage  to  one  of  my 
neighbor’s  daughters;  upon  which,  the  gentleman,  my  friend, 
said,  ‘Nay;  if  Mr.  Bickerstaff  marries  a child  of  any  of  his  old 
companions,  I hope  mine  shall  have  the  preference;  there  is 
Mrs.  Mary  is  now  sixteen,  and  would  make  him  as  fine  a widow 
as  the  best  of  them.  But  I know  him  too  well ; he  is  so  enam- 
oured with  the  very  memory  of  those  who  flourished  in  our 
youth,  that  he  will  not  so  much  as  look  upon  the  modern 
beauties.  I remember,  old  gentleman,  how  often  you  went 
home  in  a day  to  refresh  your  countenance  and  dress  when  Ter- 
aminta  reigned  in  your  heart.  As  we  came  up  in  the  coach,  I 
repeated  to  my  wife  some  of  your  verses  on  her.’  With  such 
reflections  on  little  passages  which  happened  long  ago,  we 
passed  our  time  during  a cheerful  and  elegant  meal.  After 
dinner  his  lady  left  the  room,  as  did  also  the  children.  As  soon 
as  we  were  alone,  he  took  me  by  the  hand  : ‘ Well,  my  good 
friend,’  says  he,  ‘I  am  heartily  glad  to  see  thee;  I was  afraid 
you  would  never  have  seen  all  the  company  that  dined  with  you 
to-day  again.  Do  not  you  think  the  good  woman  of  the  house 
a little  altered  since  you  followed  her  from  the  playhouse  to  find 
out  who  she  was  for  me?  ’ I perceived  a tear  fall  down  his 
cheek  as  he  spoke,  which  moved  me  not  a little.  But,  to  turn 
the  discourse,  I said,  ‘ She  is  not,  indeed,  that  creature  she  was 
when  she  returned  me  the  letter  I carried  from  you,  and  told 
me,  “ She  hoped,  as  I was  a gentleman,  I would  be  employed  no 
more  to  trouble  her,  who  had  never  offended  me;  but  would 
be  so  much  the  g ntleman’s  friend  as  to  dissuade  him  from  a 
pursuit  which  he  could  never  succeed  in.”  You  may  remember 
1 thought  her  in  earnest,  and  you  were  forced  to  employ  your 
cousin  Will,  who  made  his  sister  get  acquainted  with  her  for 
you.  You  cannot  expect  her  to  be  forever  fifteen.*  ‘Fifteen!  * 
replied  my  good  friend.  ‘Ah!  you  little  understand  — you,  that 
have  lived  a bachelor  — how  great,  how  exquisite  a pleasure 
there  is  in  being  really  beloved  ! It  is  impossible  that  the  most 
beauteous  face  in  nature  should  raise  in  me  such  pleasing  ideas 
as  when  I look  upon  that  excellent  woman.  That  fading  in  her 
countenance  is  chiefly  caused  by  her  watching  with  me  in  my 
fever.  This  was  followed  by  a fit  of  sickness,  which  had  like 
to  have  carried  me  off  last  winter.  I tell  you,  sincerely,  I have 
eo  many  obligations  to  her  that  I cannot,  with  any  sort  of  mod- 


122 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


rather  insipid  — the  Reader , of  whom  the 
public  saw  no  more  after  his  second  appear- 
ance— the  Theatre , under  the  pseudonyme  of 


eration,  think  of  her  present  state  of  health.  But,  as  to  what 
you  say  of  fifteen,  she  gives  me  every  day  pleasure  beyond  what 
I ever  knew  in  the  possession  of  her  beauty  when  I was  in  the 
vigor  of  youth.  Every  moment  of  her  life  brings  me  fresh 
instances  of  her  complacency  to  my  inclinations,  and  her  pru- 
dence in  regard  to  my  fortune.  Her  face  is  to  me  much  more 
beautiful  than  when  1 first  saw  it ; there  is  no  decay  in  any  fea- 
ture which  I cannot  trace  from  the  very  instant  it  was  occa- 
sioned by  some  anxious  concern  for  my  welfare  and  interests. 
Thus,  at  the  same  time,  methinks,  the  love  I conceived  towards 
her  for  what  she  was,  is  heightened  by  my  gratitude  for  what 
she  is.  The  love  of  a wife  is  as  much  above  the  idle  passion 
commonly  called  by  that  name,  as  the  loud  laughter  of  buffoons 
is  inferior  to  the  elegant  mirth  of  gentlemen.  Oh!  she  is  an 
inestimable  jewel!  In  her  exam  nation  of  her  household  affairs, 
she  shows  a certain  fearfulness  to  find  a fault,  which  makes  her 
servants  obey  her  like  children ; and  the  meanest  we  have  has 
an  ingenuous  shame  for  an  offence  not  always  to  be  seen  in 
children  in  other  families.  I speak  freely  to  you,  my  old  friend; 
ever  since  her  sickness,  things  that  gave  me  the  quickest  joy  be- 
fore turn  now  to  a certain  anxiety.  As  tbe  children  play  in  the 
next  room,  I know  the  poor  things  by  their  steps,  and  am  con- 
sidering what  they  must  do  should  they  lose  their  mother  in 
their  tender  years.  The  pleasure  I used  to  take  in  telling  my 
boy  stories  of  battles,  and  asking  my  girl  questions  about  the 
disposal  of  her  baby,  and  the  gossiping  of  it,  is  turned  into  in- 
ward reflection  and  melancholy.’ 

“ He  would  have  gone  on  in  this  tender  way,  when  the  good 
lady  entered,  and,  with  an  inexpressible  sweetness  in  her  coun- 
tenance, told  us  ‘ she  had  been  searching  her  closet  for  some- 
thing very  good  to  treat  such  an  old  friend  as  I was.  Her  hus- 
band’s eyes  sparkled  with  pleasure  at  the  cheerfulness  of  her 
countenance;  and  I saw  all  his  fears  vanish  in  an  instant.  The 
lady  observing  something  in  our  looks  which  showed  we  had 
been  more  serious  than  ordinary,  and  seeing  her  husband  receive 
her  with  great  concern  under  a forced  cheerfulness,  immediately 
guessed  at  what  we  had  been  talking  of;  and  applying  herself 
to  me,  said,  with  a smile,  ‘ Mr.  Bickerstaff,  do  not  believe  a word 
of  what  he  tells  you ; I shall  still  live  to  have  you  for  my  second, 
as  I have  often  promised  you,  unless  he  takes  more  care  of  him- 
ejlf  than  he  has  done  since  his  coming  to  town.  You  must  know 
he  tells  me  that  he  finds  London  is  a much  more  healthy  place 
than  the  country ; for  he  sees  several  of  his  old  acquaintances 
and  school-fellows  are  here  — young  fellows  icith  fair , full- 
bottomed  periwigs . I could  scarce  keep  him  this  morning  from 
going  out  open-breasted.'  My  friend,  who  is  always  extremely 
delighted  with  her  agreeable  humor,  made  her  sit  down  with  us. 
Phe  did  it  with  that  easiness  which  is  peculiar  to  women  of 


STEELE . 


123 


Sir  John  Edgar,  which  Steele  wrote  while 
Governor  of  the  Royal  Company  of  Come- 
dians, to  which  post,  and  to  that  of  Surveyor 


sense;  and  to  keep  up  the  good-humor  she  had  brought  in  with 
her,  turned  her  raillery  upon  me.  ‘ Mr.  Bickerstaff,  you  remem- 
ber you  followed  me  one  night  from  the  playhouse;  suppose 
you  should  carry  me  thither  to-morrow  night,  and  lead  me  in 
the  front  box.’  This  put  us  into  a long  field  of  discourse  about 
the  beauties  who  were  the  mothers  to  the  present,  and  shined  in 
the  boxes  twenty  years  ago.  I told  her,  ‘ I was  glad  she  had 
transferred  so  many  of  her  charms,  and  I did  not  question  but 
her  eldest  daughter  was  within  half  a year  of  being  a toast.’ 
“We  were  pleasing  ourselves  with  this  fantastical  prefer- 
ment of  the  young  lady,  when,  on  a sudden,  we  were  alarmed 
with  the  noise  of  a drum,  and  immediately  entered  my  little  god- 
son to  give  me  a point  of  war.  His  mother,  between  laughing 
and  chiding,  would  have  put  him  out  of  the  room;  but  I would 
not  part  with  him  so.  I found,  upon  conversation  with  him, 
though  he  was  a little  noisy  in  his  mirth,  that  the  child  had  ex- 
cellent parts,  and  was  a great  master  of  all  the  learning  on  the 
other  side  of  eight  years  old.  I perceived  him  a very  great  his- 
torian in  * HCsop's  Fables’ ; but  he  frankly  declared  to  me  his 
mind,  ‘that  he  did  not  delight  in  that  learning,  because  he  did 
not  believe  they  were  true’;  for  which  reason  I found  he  had 
very  much  turned  his  studies,  for  about  a twelvemonth  past, 
into  the  lives  of  Don  Bellianis  of  Greece,  Guy  of  Warwick,  ‘ the 
Seven  Champions,’  and  other  historians  of  that  age.  I could 
not  but  observe  the  satisfaction  the  father  took  in  the  forward- 
ness of  his  son,  and  that  these  diversions  might  turn  to  some 
profit.  I found  the  boy  had  made  remarks  which  might  be  of 
service  to  him  during  the  course  of  his  whole  life.  He  would 
tell  you  the  mismanagement  of  John  Hiekathrift,  find  fault 
with  the  passionate  temper  in  Bevis  of  Southampton,  and  loved 
St.  George  for  being  the  champion  of  England ; and  by  this 
means  had  his  thoughts  insensibly  moulded  into  the  notions  of 
discretion,  virtue,  and  honor.  I was  extolling  his  accomplish- 
ments, when  his  mother  told  me  ‘ that  the  little  girl  who  led  me 
in  this  morning  was,  in  her  way,  a better  scholar  than  he. 
Betty,’  said  she,  ‘ deals  chiefly  in  fairies  and  sprights ; and 
sometimes  in  a winter  night  will  terrify  the  maids  with  her 
accounts,  until  they  are  afraid  to  go  up  to  bed.’ 

“ I sat  with  them  until  it  was  very  late,  sometimes  in 
merry,  sometimes  in  serious  discourse,  with  this  particular 
pleasure,  which  gives  the  only  true  relish  to  all  conversation,  a 
sense  that  every  one  of  us  liked  each  other.  1 went  home,  con- 
sidering the  different  conditions  of  a married  life  and  that  of  a 
bachelor  ; and  I must  confess  it  struck  me  with  a. secret  concern, 
to  reflect,  that  whenever  I go  off  I shall  leave  no  traces  behind 
me.  In  this  pensive  mood  I return  to  my  family;  that  is  to  say, 
to  my  maid,  my  dog,  my  cat,  who  only  can  be  the  better  or 
worse  for  what  happens  to  me.”  — The  Tatler. 


124 


ENGLISH  HVMOBISTS . 


of  the  Ro}Tal  Stables  at  Hampton  Court,  and 
to  the  Commission  of  the  Peace  for  Middlesex, 
and  to  the  honor  of  knighthood,  Steele  had 
been  preferred  soon  after  the  accession  of 
George  I.  ; whose  cause  honest  Dick  had 
nobly  fought,  through  disgrace,  and  danger, 
against  the  most  formidable  enemies,  against 
traitors  and  bullies,  against  Bolingbroke  and 
Swift  in  the  last  reign.  With  the  arrival  of 
the  King,  that  splendid  conspiracy  broke  up  ; 
and  a golden  opportunity  came  to  Dick  Steele, 
wThose  hand,  alas,  was  too  careless  to  gripe  it ! 

Steele  married  twice,  and  outlived  his  places, 
his  schemes,  his  wife,  his  income,  his  health, 
and  almost  everything  but  his  kind  heart. 
That  ceased  to  trouble  him  in  1729,  when  he 
died,  worn  out  and  almost  forgotten  by  his 
contemporaries,  in  Wales,  where  he  had  the 
remnant  of  a property. 

Posterity  has  been  kinder  to  this  amiable 
creature  ; all  women  especially  are  bound  to 
be  grateful  to  Steele,  as  he  was  the  first  of  our 
writers  who  really  seemed  to  admire  and  re- 
spect them.  Congreve  the  Great,  who  alludes 
to  the  low  estimation  in  which  women  were 
held  in  Elizabeth’s  time,  us  a reason  why  the 
women  of  Shakespeare  make  so  small  a figure 
in  the  poet’s  dialogues,  though  he  can  himself 
pay  splendid  compliments  to  women,  yet  looks 
on  them  as  mere  instruments  of  gallantry,  and 
destined,  like  the  most  consummate  fortifica- 
tions, to  fall,  after  a certain  time,  before  the 
arts  and  bravery  of  the  besieger,  man.  There 
is  a letter  of  Swift’s  entitled  u Advice  to  a 


STEELE. 


125 


very  Young  Married  Lady,”  which  shows  the 
Dean’s  opinion  of  the  female  society  of  his 
day,  and  that  if  he  despised  man  he  utterly 
scorned  women  too.  No  lady  of  our  time  could 
be  treated  by  any  man,  were  he  ever  so  much 
a wit  or  Dean,  in  such  a tone  of  insolent  pat- 
ronage and  vulgar  protection.  In  this  per- 
formance, Swift  hardly  takes  pains  to  hide  his 
opinion  that  a woman  is  a fool : tells  her  to 
read  books,  as  if  reading  was  a novel  accom- 
plishment; and  informs  her  that  “ not  one 
gentleman’s  daughter  in  a thousand  has  been 
brought  to  read  or  understand  her  own  natural 
tongue.”  Addison  laughs  at  women  equally  ; 
but,  with  the  gentleness  and  politeness  of  his 
nature,  smiles  at  them  and  watches  them,  as 
if  they  were  harmless,  half-witted,  amusing, 
pretty  creatures,  only  made  to  be  men’s  play- 
things. It  was  Steele  who  first  began  to  pay 
a manly  homage  to  their  goodness  and  under- 
standing, as  well  as  to  their  tenderness  and 
beauty.*  In  his  comedies  the  heroes  do  not 
rant  and  rave  about  the  divine  beauties  of 
Gloriana  or  Statira,  as  the  characters  were 


* “ As  to  the  pursuits  after  affection  and  esteem,  the  fair  sex 
are  happy  in  this  particular,  that  with  them  the  one  is  much 
more  nearly  related  to  the  other  than  in  men.  The  love  of  a 
woman  is  inseparable  from  some  esteem  of  her;  and  as  she  is 
naturally  the  object  of  affection,  the  woman  who  has  your  es- 
teem has  also  some  degree  of  your  love.  A man  that  dotes  on  a 
woman  for  her  beauty,  will  whisper  his  friend,  ‘ That  creature 
has  a great  deal  of  wit  when  you  are  well  acquainted  with  her.* 
And  if  you  examine  the  bottom  of  your  esteem  for  a woman, 
you  will  find  you  have  a greater  opinion  of  her  beauty  than  any- 
body else.  As  to  us  men,  I design  to  pass  most  of  my  time  with 
the  facetious  Harry  Bickerstaff;  but  William  Bickerstaff,  the 
most  prudent  man  of  our  family,  shall  be  my  executor.”  — Tatler , 
No.  206. 


126 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 

made  to  do  in  the  chivalry  romances  and  the 
high-flown  dramas  just  going  out  of  vogue  ; 
but  Steele  admires  women’s  virtue,  acknowl- 
edges their  sense,  and  adores  their  purity  and 
beauty,  with  an  ardor  and  strength  which 
should  win  the  good-will  of  all  women  to  their 
hearty  and  respectful  champion.  It  is  this 
ardor,  this  respect,  this  manliness,  which  makes 
his  comedies  so  pleasant  and  their  heroes  such 
fine  gentlemen.  He  paid  the  finest  compliment 
to  a woman  that  perhaps  ever  was  offered. 
Of  one  woman,  whom  Congreve  had  also  ad- 
mired and  celebrated,  Steele  says,  that  “ to 
have  loved  her  was  a liberal  education.” 
u How  often,”  he  says,  dedicating  a volume 
to  his  wife,  — how  often  has  your  tenderness 
removed  pain  from  my  sick  head,  how  often 
anguish  from  my  afflicted  heart ! If  there  are 
such  beings  as  guardian  angels,  they  are  thus 
employed.  I cannot  believe  one  of  them  to  be 
more  good  in  inclination,  or  more  charming  in 
form  than  my  wife.”  His  breast  seems  to 
warm  and  his  eyes  to  kindle  when  he  meets 
with  a go  d and  beautiful  woman,  and  it  is 
with  his  heart  as  well  as  with  his  hat  that  he- 
salutes  her.  About  children,  and  all  that  re- 
lates to  home,  he  is  not  less  tender,  and  more 
than  once  speaks  in  apology  of  what  he  calls 
his  softness.  He  would  have  been  nothing 
without  that  delightful  weakness.  It  is  that 
which  gives  his  works  their  worth  and  his  style 
its  charm.  It,  like  his  life,  is  full  of  faults  and 
careless  blunders  ; and  redeemed,  like  that,  by 
his  sweet  and  compassionate  nature. 


STEELE . 


127 


We  possess  of  poor  Steele’s  wild  and  check- 
ered life  some  of  the  most  curious  memoranda 
that  ever  were  left  of  a man’s  biography.* 


* The  Correspondence  of  Steele  passed  after  his  death  into 
the  possession  of  his  daughter  Elizabeth,  by  his  second  wife, 
Miss  Scurlock,  of  Carmarthenshire.  She  married  the  Hon.  John, 
afterwards  third  Lord  Trevor.  At  her  death,  part  of  the  letters 
passed  to  Mr.  Thomas,  a grandson  of  a natural  daughter  of 
Steele’s;  and  part  to  Lady  Trevor’s  next  of  kin,  Mr.  Scurlock. 
They  were  published  by  the  learned  Nichols  — from  whose  later 
edition  of  them,  in  1809,  our  specimens  are  quoted. 

Here  we  have  him,  in  his  courtship  — which  was  not  a very 
long  one  : — 

“ To  Mrs.  Scurlock. 

“ Aug.  30, 1707. 

“ Madam,  — I beg  pardon  that  my  paper  is  not  finer,  but  I am 
forced  to  write  from  a coffee-house,  where  I am  attending  about 
business.  There  is  a dirty  crowd  of  busy  faces  all  around  me, 
talking  of  money;  while  all  my  ambition,  all  my  wealth,  is  love! 
Love  which  animates  my  heart,  sweetens  my  humor,  enlarges 
my  soul,  and  affects  every  action  of  my  lire.  It  is  to  my  lovely 
charmer  I owe,  that  many  noble  ideas  are  continually  affixed  to 
my  words  and  actions;  it  is  the  natural  effect  of  that  generous 
passion  to  create  in  the  admirer  some  similitude  of  the  object 
admired.  Thus,  my  dear,  am  I every  day  to  improve  from  so 
sweet  a companion.  Look  up,  my  fair  one,  to  that  Heaven  which 
made  thee  such;  and  join  with  me  to  implore  its  influence  on 
our  tender  innocent  hours,  and  beseech  the  Author  of  love  to 
bless  the  rites  He  has  ordained  — and  mingle  with  our  happiness 
a just  sense  of  our  transient  condition,  and  a resignation  to  His 
will,  which  only  can  regulate  our  minds  to  a steady  endeavor  to 
please  Him  and  each  other. 

“ I am  for  ever  your  faithful  servant, 

“ Rich.  Steele.” 

Some  few  hours  afterwards,  apparently,  Mistress  Scurlock 
received  the  next  one  — obviously  written  later  in  the  day  ! — 

**  Saturday  Night  (Aug.  30,  1707). 

“ Dear , Lovely  Mrs.  Scurlock , — I have  been  in  very  good 
company,  where  your  health,  under  the  character  of  the  woman 
I loved  best,  has  been  often  drunk;  so  that  I may  say  that  I am 
dead  drunk  for  your  sake,  which  is  more  than  T die  for  you. 

“ Rich.  Steele.” 


“ To  Mrs.  Scurlock. 

“ Sept.  1,  1707. 

“ Madam , — It  is  the  hardest  thing  in  the  world  to  be  in  love, 
and  yet  attend  business.  As  forme,  all  who  speak  to  me  find  me 


128 


ENGLISH  HUMOBISTS . 


Most  men’s  letters,  from  Cicero  down  to  Wal- 
pole, or  down  to  the  great  men  of  our  own 
time,  if  you  will,  are  doctored  compositions, 


out,  and  I must  lock  myself  up,  or  other  people  will  do  it 
for  me. 

“ A gentleman  asked  me  this  morning,  ‘ What  news  from 
Lisbon?’  and  I answered,  ‘She  is  exquisitely  handsome.’  An- 
other desired  to  know  ‘ when  I had  last  been  at  Hampton  Court?  ’ 
I replied,  ‘It  will  be  on  Tuesday  come  se’nnight.’  Pr’ythee 
allow  me  at  least  to  kiss  your  hand  before  that  day,  that  my 
mind  may  be  in  some  composure.  O Love ! 

‘ A thousand  torments  dwell  about  thee, 

Yet  who  could  live,  to  live  without  thee?  * 

“ Methinks  I could  write  a volume  to  you ; but  all  the  language 
on  earth  would  fail  in  saying  how  much,  and  with  wThat  disin- 
terested passion, 

“I  am  ever  yours, 

“ Rich.  Steele.” 

Two  days  after  this,  he  is  found  expounding  his  circum- 
stances and  prospects  to  the  young  lady’s  mamma.  He  dates 
from  “Lord  Sunderland’s  office,  Whitehall”;  and  states  his 
clear  income  at  £1,025  per  annum.  “I  promise  myself,”  says 
he,  “ the  pleasure  of  an  industrious  and  virtuous  life,  in  studying 
to  do  things  agreeable  to  you.” 

They  were  married,  according  to  the  most  probable  conjec- 
tures, about  the  7th  of  September.  There  are  traces  of  a tiff  about 
the  middle  of  the  next  month ; she  being  prudish  and  iidgety,  as 
he  was  impassioned  and  reckless.  General  progress,  however, 
may  be  seen  from  the  following  notes.  The  “ house  in  Bury 
Street,  St.  James’s,”  was  now  taken. 

“ To  Mrs.  Steele. 

“ Oct.  16,  1707. 

“ Dearest  Being  on  Earthy  — Pardon  me  if  you  do  not  see 
me  till  eleveL  o’clock,  having  met  a school-fellow  from  India,  by 
whom  I am  to  be  informed  on  things  this  night  which  expressly 
concern  your  obedient  husband, 

“Rich.  Steele,” 

“To  Mrs.  Steele. 

“ Eight  O’clock,  Fountain  Tavern, 
Oct.  22,  1707. 

“ My  Bear,  — I Leg  of  you  not  to  be  uneasy ; for  I have  done 
a great  deal  of  business  to-day  very  successfully,  and  wait  an 
hour  or  twTo  about  my  Gazette .” 

“ Dec.  22,  1707. 

“ My  dear,  dear  Wife, — I write  to  let  you  know  I do  not 
come  home  to  dinner,  being  obliged  to  attend  some  business 
abroad,  of  which  I shall  give  you  an  account  (when  I see  you  in 
the  evening),  as  becomes  your  dutiful  and  obedient  husband.” 


STEELE. 


129 


and  written  with  an  eye  suspicious  towards 
posterity.  That  dedication  of  Steele’s  to  his 
wife  is  an  artificial  performance,  possibly  ; at 


“ Devil  Tavern,  Temple  Bar, 
Jan.  3,  1707-8. 

“ Dear  Prue , — I have  partly  succeeded  in  my  business  to-day, 
and  inclose  two  guineas  as  earnest  of  more.  Dear  Prue,  I can- 
not come  home  to  dinner.  I languish  for  your  welfare,  and  will 
never  be  a moment  careless  more. 

“ Your  faithful  husband,”  etc. 

“Jan.  14,  1707-8. 

“ Dear  Wife , — Mr.  Edgecombe,  Ned  Ask,  and  Mr.  Lumley 
have  desired  me  to  sit  an  hour  with  them  at  the  ‘ George,’  in 
Pall  Mall,  for  which  I desire  your  patience  till  twelve  o’clock, 
and  that  you  will  go  to  bed,”  etc. 

“ Gray’s  Inn,  Feb.  3,  1708. 

**  Dear  Prue , — If  the  man  who  has  my  shoemaker’s  bill  calls, 
let  him  be  answered  that  I shall  call  on  him  as  I come  home.  I 
stay  here  in  order  to  get  Jonson  to  discount  a bill  for  me,  and 
shall  dine  with  him  for  that  end.  He  is  expected  at  home  every 
minute. 

“ Your  most  humble,  obedient  servant,”  etc. 

“ Tennis-court,  Cofpee-house, 
May  5,  1708. 

“ Dear  Wife,  — I hope  I have  done  this  day  what  will  be 
pleasing  to  you ; in  the  mean  time  shall  lie  this  night  at  a baker’s, 
one  Leg,  over  against  the  ‘ Devil  Tavern,’  at  Charing  Cross.  I 
shall  be  able  to  confront  the  fools  who  wish  me  uneasy,  and  shall 
have  the  satisfaction  to  see  thee  cheerful  and  at  ease. 

“If  the  printer’s  boy  be  at  home,  send  him  hither;  and  let 
Mrs.  Todd  send  by  the  boy  my  night-gown,  slippers,  and  clean 
linen.  You  shall  hear  from  me  early  in  the  morning,”  etc. 

Dozens  of  similar  letters  follow,  with  occasional  guineas,  little 
parcels  of  tea,  or  walnuts,  etc.  In  1709  the  Tatler  made  its  ap- 
pearance. The  following  curious  note  dates  April  7, 1710  : — 

“ I inclose  to  you  [*  Dear  Prue  ’]a  receipt  for  the  saucepan 
and  spoon,  and  a note  of  £23,  of  Lewis’s,  which  will  make  up  the 
£50  I promised  for  your  ensuing  occasion. 

“ I know  no  happiness  in  this  life  in  any  degree  comparable 
to  the  pleasure  I have  in  your  person  and  society.  I only  beg  of 
you  to  add  to  your  other  charms  a tearfulness  to  see  a man  that 
loves  you  in  pain  and  uneasiness,  to  make  me  as  happy  as  it  is 
possible  to  be  in  this  life.  Rising  a little  in  a morning,  and  being 
disposed  to  a cheerfulness  . . . would  not  be  amiss.” 

In  another,  he  is  found  excusing  his  coming  home,  being 
“ invited  to  supper  to  Mr.  Boyle’s.”  “ Dear  Prue,”  he  says  on 
this  occasion,  “ do  not  send  after  me,  for  I shall  be  ridiculous,” 

9 


130 


ENGLISH  HUMOBISTS. 


least,  it  is  written  wTith  that  degree  of  artifice 
which  an  orator  uses  in  arranging  a statement 
for  the  House,  or  a poet  employs  in  preparing 
a sentiment  in  verse  or  for  the  stage.  But 
there  are  some  four  hundred  letters  of  Dick 
Steele’s  to  his  wife,  which  that  thrifty  woman 
preserved  accurately,  and  which  could  have 
been  written  but  for  her  and  her  alone.  They 
contain  details  of  the  business,  pleasures, 
quarrels,  reconciliations  of  the  pair ; they 
have  all  the  genuineness  of  conversation  ; they 
are  as  artless  as  a child’s  prattle,  and  as  con- 
fidental  as  a curtain-lecture.  Some  are  writ- 
ten from  the  printing  office,  where  he  is  waiting 
for  the  proof-sheets  of  his  Gazette , or  his  Tat - 
lev;  some  are  written  from  the  tavern,  whence 
he  promises  to  come  to  his  wife  u within  a pint 
of  wine,”  and  where  he  has  given  a rendezvous 
to  a friend  or  a money-lender  : some  are  com- 
posed in  a high  state  of  vinous  excitement, 
when  his  head  is  flustered  with  burgundy,  and 
his  heart  abounds  with  amorous  warmth  for 
his  darling  Prue  : some  are  under  the  influence 
of  the  dismal  headache  and  repentance  next 
morning ; some,  alas,  are  from  the  lock-up 
house,  where  the  lawyers  have  impounded  him, 
and  where  he  is  waiting  for  bail.  You  trace 
many  years  of  the  poor  fellow’s  career  in  these 
letters.  In  September,  1707,  from  which  day 
she  began  to  save  the  letters,  he  married  the 
beautiful  Mistress  Scurlock.  You  have  his 
passionate  protestations  to  the  lady ; his  re- 
spectful proposals  to  her  mamma  ; his  private 
prayer  to  Heaven  when  the  union  so  ardently 


STEELE. 


131 


desired  was  completed ; his  fond  professions 
of  contrition  and  promises  of  amendment, 
when,  immediately  after  his  marriage,  there 
began  to  be  just  cause  for  the  one  and  need 
for  the  other. 

Captain  Steele  took  a house  for  his  lady  upon 
their  marriage,  u the  third  door  from  Germain 
Street,  left  hand  of  Berry  Street,”  and  the  next 
year  he  presented  his  wife  with  a country  house 
at  Hampton.  It  appears  she  had  a chariot 
and  pair,  and  sometimes  four  horses  : he  him- 
self enjoyed  a little  horse  for  his  own  riding. 
He  paid,  or  promised  to  pay,  his  barber  fifty 
pounds  a year,  and  always  went  abroad  in  a 
laced  coat  and  a large  black  buckled  periwig, 
that  must  have  cost  somebody  fifty  guineas. 
He  was  rather  a well-to-do  gentleman,  Captain 
Steele,  with  the  proceeds  of  his  estates  in 
Barbadoes  (left  to  him  by  his  first  wife),  his 
income  as  a writer  of  the  Gazette , and  his  office 
of  gentleman  waiter  to  his  Royal  Highness 
Prince  George.  His  second  wife  brought  him 
a fortune  too.  But  it  is  melancholy  to  relate, 
that  with  these  houses  and  chariots  and  horses 
and  income,  the  Captain  was  constantly  in 
want  of  money,  for  which  his  beloved  bride 
was  a -king  as  constantly.  In  the  course  of  a 
few  pages  we  begin  to  find  the  shoemaker  call- 
ing for  money,  and  some  directions  from  the 
Captain,  who  has  not  thirty  pounds  to  spare. 
He  sends  his  wife,  u the  beautif idlest  object  in 
the  world,”  as  he  calls  her,  and  evidently  in 
reply  to  applications  of  her  own,  which  have 
gone  the  way  of  all  waste  paper,  and  lighted 


132 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. . 


Dick’s  pipes,  which  were  smoked  a hundred 
and  fort}^  years  ago  — he  sends  his  wife  now  a 
guinea,  then  a half  guinea,  then  a couple  of 
guineas,  then  half  a pound  of  tea ; and  again 
no  money  and  no  tea  at  all,  but  a promise  that 
his  darling  Prue  shall  have  some  in  a day  or 
two : or  a request,  perhaps,  that  she  will  send 
over  his  night-gown  and  shaving-plate  to  the 
temporary  lodging  where  the  nomadic  Captain 
is  lying,  hidden  from  the  bailiffs.  Oh  ! that  a 
Christian  hero  and  late  Captain  in  Lucas’s 
should  be  afraid  of  a dirty  sheriff’s  officer ! 
That  the  pink  and  pride  of  chivalry  should 
turn  pale  before  a writ ! It  stands  to  record 
in  poor  Dick’s  own  handwriting  — the  queer 
collection  is  preserved  at  the  British  Museum 
to  this  present  day  — that  the  rent  of  the 
nuptial  house  in  Jermyn  Street,  sacred  to  un- 
utterable tenderness  and  Prue,  and  three  doors 
fiom  Bury  Street,  was  not  paid  until  after  the 
landlord  had  put  in  an  execution  on  Captain 
Steele’s  furniture.  Addison  sold  the  house 
and  furniture  at  Hampton,  and,  after  deducting 
t!  e sum  which  his  incorrigible  friend  was  in- 
debted to  him,  handed  over  the  residue  of  the 
proceeds  of  the  sale  to  poor  Dick,  who  was  n’t 
in  the  least  angry  at  Addison’s  summary  pro- 
ceeding, and  I dare  say  was  very  glad  of  any 
sa’e  or  execution,  the  result  of  wdiich  wras  to 
give  him  a little  ready  money.  Having  a small 
house  in  Jermyn  Street  for  which  he  couldn’t 
pay,  and  a country  house  at  Hampton  on  which 
he  had  borrowed  money,  nothing  must  content 
Captain  Dick  but  the  taking,  in  1712,  a much 


STEELE. 


133 


finer,  larger,  and  grander  house  in  Bloomsbury 
Square : where  his  unhappy  landlord  got  no 
better  satisfaction  than  his  friend  in  St. 
James’s,  and  where  it  is  recorded  that  Dick 
giving  a grand  entertainment,  had  a half-dozen 
queer-looking  fellows  in  livery  to  wait  upon  his 
noble  guests,  and  confessed  that  his  servants 
were  bailiffs  to  a man.  UI  fared  like  a dis- 
tressed prince,”  the  kindly  prodigal  writes, 
generously  complimenting  Addison  for  his  as- 
sistance in  the  Tatler , — “I  fared  like  a dis- 
tressed prince,  who  calls  in  a powerful  neighbor 
to  his  aid.  I was  undone  by  my  auxiliary  ; 
when  I had  once  called  him  in,  I could  not 
subsist  without  dependence  on  him.”  Poor, 
needy  Prince  of  Bloomsbury  ! think  of  him  in 
his  palace  with  his  allies  from  Chancery  Lane 
ominously  guarding  him. 

All  sorts  of  stories  are  told  indicative  of  his 
recklessness  and  his  good-humor.  One  nar- 
rated by  Doctor  Hoadly  is  exceedingly  charac- 
teristic ; it  shows  the  life  of  the  time  ; and  our 
poor  friend  very  weak,  but  very  kind  both  in 
and  out  of  his  cups. 

“ My  father,”  says  Doctor  John  Hoadly,  the 
Bishop’s  son,  u when  Bishop  of  Bangor,  was, 
by  invitation,  present  at  one  of  the  Whig  meet- 
ings, held  at  the  4 Trumpet,’  in  Shire  Lane, 
when  Sir  Richard,  in  his  zeal,  rather  exposed 
himself,  having  the  double  duty  of  the  day 
upon  him,  as  well  to  celebrate  the  immortal 
memory  of  King  William,  it  being  the  4th 
November,  as  to  drink  his  friend  Addison  up 
to  conversation  pitch,  whose  phlegmatic  con- 


134 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS . 


stitution  was  hardly  warmed  for  society  by  that 
time.  Steele  was  not  fit  for  it.  Two  remark- 
able circumstances  happened.  John  Sly,  the 
hatter  of  facetious  memory,  wras  in  the  house  ; 
and  John,  pretty  mellow,  took  it  into  his  head 
to  come  into  the  company  on  his  knees,  with 
a tankard  of  ale  in  his  hand  to  drink  off  to  the 
immortal  memory , and  to  return  in  the  same 
manner.  Steele,  sitting  next  my  father,  whis- 
pered him,  Do  laugh.  It  is  humanity  to  laugh. 
Sir  Richard,  in  the  evening,  being  too  much 
in  the  same  condition,  was  put  into  a chair, 
and  sent  home.  Nothing  would  serve  him  but 
being  carried  to  the  Bishop  of  Bangor’s,  late 
as  it  was.  However,  the  chairmen  carried  him 
home,  and  got  him  up-stairs,  when  his  great 
complaisance  would  wait  on  them  down-stairs, 
which  he  did,  and  then  was  got  quietly  to 
bed.”  * 

There  is  another  amusing  story  which,  I 
believe,  that  renowned  collector,  Mr.  Joseph 
Miller,  or  his  successors,  have  incorporated 
into  their  work.  Sir  Richard  Steele,  at  a time 
when  he  was  much  occupied  with  theatrical 
affairs,  built  himself  a pretty  private  theatre y 
and  before  it  was  opened  to  his  friends  and 
guests,  was  anxious  to  try  whether  the  hall 
was  well  adapted  for  hearing.  Accordingly 
he  placed  himself  in  the  most  remote  part  of 
the  gallery,  and  begged  the  carpenter  who  had 
built  the  nouse  to  speak  up  from  the  stage. 


*Of  this  famous  Bishop,  Steele  wrote, — 

“ Virtue  with  so  much  ease  on  Bangor  sits, 

All  faults  he  pardons,  though  he  none  commits/* 


STEELE. 


135 


The  man  at  first  said  that  he  was  unaccustomed 
to  public  speaking,  and  did  not  know  what  to 
say  to  his  honor  ; but  the  good-natured  knight 
called  out  to  him  to  say  whatever  was  upper- 
most ; and,  after  a moment  the  carpenter 
began,  in  a voice  perfectly  audible:  44  Sir 
Richard  Steele  ! ” he  said,  44  for  three  months 
past  me  and  my  men  has  been  a working  in 
this  theatre,  and  we’ve  never  seen  the  color 
of  your  honor’s  money  : we  will  be  very  much 
obliged  if  you’ll  pay  it  directly,  for  until  you 
do  we  won't  drive  in  another  nail.”  Sir  Rich- 
ard said  that  his  friend’s  elocution  was  perfect, 
but  that  he  didn’t  like  his  subject  much. 

The  great  charm  of  Steele’s  writing  is  its 
naturalness.  He  wrote  so  quickly  and  care- 
lessly that  he  was  forced  to  make  the  reader 
his  confidant,  and  had  not  the  time  to  deceive 
him.  He  had  a small  share  of  book-learning, 
but  a vast  acquaintance  with  the  world.  He 
had  known  men  and  taverns.  He  had  lived 
with  gownsmen,  with  troopers,  with  gentlemen 
ushers  of  the  Court,  with  men  and  women  of 
fashion ; with  authors  and  wits,  with  the  in- 
mates of  the  spunging-houses,  and  with  the 
frequenters  of  all  the  clubs  and  coffee-houses 
in  the  town.  He  was  liked  in  all  company 
because  he  liked  it ; and  you  like  to  see  his 
enjoyment  as  you  like  to  see  the  glee  of  a box- 
ful of  children  at  the  pantomime,  lie  was  not 
of  those  lonely  ones  of  the  earth  whose  great- 
ness obliged  them  to  be  solitary ; on  the  con- 
trary, he  admired,  I think,  more  than  any  man 
who  ever  wrote ; and  full  of  hearty  applause 


136 


ENGLISH  IIUMOBISTS. 


and  sympathy,  wins  upon  you  by  calling  you 
to  share  his  delight  and  good-humor.  His 
laugh  rings  through  the  wrhole  house.  He 
must  have  been  invaluable  at  a tragedy,  and 
have  cried  as  much  as  the  most  tender  young 
lady  in  the  boxes.  He  has  a relish  for  beauty 
and  goodness  wherever  he  meets  it.  He  ad- 
mired Shakespeare  affectionately,  and  more 
than  any  man  of  his  time  : and  according  to 
his  generous  expansive  nature,  called  upon  all 
his  company  to  like  what  he  liked  himself. 
He  did  not  damn  with  faint  praise  : he  was 
in  the  world  and  of  it ; and  his  enjoyment  of 
life  presents  the  strangest  contrast  to  Swift’s 
savage  indignation  and  Addison’s  lonely  se- 
renity.* Permit  me  to  read  to  you  a passage 


* Here  we  have  some  of  his  later  letters  : — 

“To  Lady  Steele. 

“ Hampton  Court,  March  16, 1716-17. 

“ Dear  Prue,  — If  you  have  written  anything  to  me  which  I 
should  have  received  last  night,  I beg  your  pardon  that  I cannot 
answer  till  the  next  post.  . . . Your  son  at  the  present  writing 
is  mighty  well  employed  in  tumbling  on  the  floor  of  the  room 
and  sweeping  the  sand  with  a feather.  He  grows  a most  delight- 
ful child,  and  very  full  of  play  and  spirit.  He  is  also  a very  great 
scholar:  he  can  read  his  primer;  and  I have  brought  down  my 
Virgil.  He  makes  most  shrewd  remarks  about  the  pictures. 
AVe  are  very  intimate  friends  and  play-fellows.  He  begins  to" 
be  very  ragged;  and  I hope  I shall  be  pardoned  if  I equip  him 
with  new  clothes  and  frocks,  or  what  Mrs.  Evans  and  I shall 
think  for  his  service.” 


“ To  Lady  Steele. 

[Undated.] 

“ You  tell  me  you  want  a little  flattery  from  me.  I assure 
you  I know  no  one  who  deserves  so  much  commendation  as 
yourself,  and  to  whom  saying  the  best  things  would  be  so  little 
jike  flattery.  The  thing  speaks  for  itself,  considering  you  as  a 
very  handsome  woman  that  loves  retirement  — one  who  does 
not  want  wit,  and  yet  is  extremely  sincere;  and  so  I could  go 
through  all  the  vices  which  attend  the  good  qualities  of  other 
people,  of  which  you  are  exempt.  But,  indeed,  though  you  have 


STEELE . 


137 


from  each  writer,  curiously  indicative  of  his 
peculiar  humor  : the  subject  is  the  same,  and 
the  mood  the  very  gravest.  We  have  said 
that  upon  all  the  actions  of  man,  the  most 
trifling  and  the  most  solemn,  the  humorist 
takes  upon  himself  to  comment.  All  readers 
of  our  old  masters  know  the  terrible  lines  of 
Swift,  in  which  he  hints  at  his  philosophy  and 
describes  the  end  of  mankind  : — * 

“ Amazed,  confused,  its  fate  unknown, 

The  world  stood  trembling  at  Jove’s  throne  ; 

While  each  pale  sinner  hung  his  head, 

Jove,  nodding,  shook  the  heavens  and  said  : 


every  perfection,  you  have  an  extravagant  fault,  which  almost 
frustrates  the  good  in  you  to  me;  and  that  is,  that  you  do  not 
love  to  dress,  to  appear,  to  shine  out,  even  at  my  request,  and 
to  make  me  proud  of  you,  or  rather  to  indulge  the  pride  I have 
that  you  are  mine.  . . . 

“ Your  most  affectionate,  obsequious  husband, 

“Richard  Steele. 

“A  quarter  of  Molly’s  schooling  is  paid.  The  children  are 
perfectly  well.” 


“ To  Lady  Steele. 

“ March  26,  1717. 

“ My  dearest  Prue,  — I have  received  yours,  wherein  you 
give  me  the  sensible  affliction  of  telling  me  enow  of  the  con- 
tinual pain  in  your  head.  . . . When  I lay  in  your  place,  and 
on  your  pillow,  I assure  you  I fell  into  tears  last  night,  to  think 
that  my  charming  little  insolent  might  be  then  awake  and  in 
pain  ; aud  took  it  to  be  a sin  to  go  to  sleep. 

“ For  this  tender  passion  towards  you,  1 must  be  contented 
that  your  Prueship  will  condescend  to  call  yourself  my  well- 
wisher.  . . .” 

At  the  time  when  the  above  later  letters  were  written,  Lady 
Steele  was  in  Wales,  looking  after  her  estate  there.  'Steele, 
about  this  time,  was  much  occupied  with  a project  for  convey- 
ing tish  alive,  by  which,  as  he  constantly  assures  his  wife,  he 
firmly  believed  he  should  make  his  fortune.  It  did  not  succeed, 
however. 

Lady  Steele  died  in  December  of  the  succeeding  year.  She 
lies  burried  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

* Lord  Chesterfield  sends  these  verses  to  Voltaire  in  a char, 
acteristic  letter. 


138 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS . 


1 Offending  race  of  human  kind, 

By  nature,  reason,  learning,  blind  ; 

You  who  through  frailtv  stepped  aside, 

And  you  who  never  err’d  through  pride  ; 

You  who  in  different  sects  were  shamm’d, 

And  come  to  see  each  other  damn’d ; 

(So  some  folk  told  you,  but  they  knew 
No  more  of  Jove’s  designs  than  you  ;) 

The  world’s  mad  business  now  is  o’er, 

And  I resent  your  freaks  no  more  ; 

/ to  such  blockheads  set  my  wit, 

I damn  such  fools  — go,  go,  you  ’re  bit ! ’ ” 

Adclison,  speaking  on  the  very  same  theme, 
but  with  how  different  a voice,  says,  in  his 
famous  paper  on  Westminster  Abbey  ( Spec- 
tator, No.  26)  : “ For  my  own  part,  though 
I am  always  serious,  I do  not  know  what  it  is 
to  be  melancholy,  and  can  therefore  take  a 
viewr  of  nature  in  her  deep  and  solemn  scenes, 
with  the  same  pleasure  as  in  her  most  gay  and 
delightful  ones.  When  I look  upon  the  tombs 
of  the  great,  every  emotion  of  envy  dies  within 
me  ; when  I read  the  epitaphs  of  the  beautiful, 
every  inordinate  desire  goes  out ; when  I meet 
with  the  grief  of  parents  on  a tombstone,  my 
heart  melts  with  compassion  ; when  I see  the 
tomb  of  the  parents  themselves,  I consider  the 
vanity  of  grieving  for  those  we  must  quickly 
follow."  (I  have  owned  that  I do  not  think 
Addison’s  heart  melted  very  much,  or  that  he 
indulged  very  inordinately  in  the  “vanity  of 
grieving.")  “ When,"  he  goes  on,  “ when  1 
see  kings  lying  by  those  who  deposed  them  : 
when  I consider  rival  wits  placed  side  by  side, 
or  the  holy  men  that  divided  the  world  with 
their  contests  and  disputes,  — I reflect  with 


STEELE. 


139 


sorrow  and  astonishment  on  the  little  compe- 
titions, factions,  and  debates  of  mankind. 
And,  when  I read  the  several  dates  on  the 
tombs  of  some  that  died  yesterday,  and  some 
six  hundred  years  ago,  I consider  that  great 
day  when  we  shall  all  of  us  be  contemporaries, 
and  make  our  appearance  together.” 

Our  third  humorist  comes  to  speak  on  the 
same  subject.  You  will  have  observed  in  the 
previous  extracts  the  characteristic  humor  of 
each  writer  — the  subject  and  the  contrast  — 
the  fact  of  Death,  and  the  play  of  individual 
thought  by  which  each  comments  on  it,  and 
now  hear  the  third  writer,  death,  sorrow,  and 
the  grave  being  for  the  moment  also  his  theme. 
“ The  first  sense  of  sorrow  I ever  knew,”  Steele 
says  in  the  Toiler,  “was  upon  the  death  of 
my  father,  at  which  time  I was  not  quite  five 
years  of  age  : but  was  rather  amazed  at  what 
all  the  house  meant,  than  possessed  of  a real 
, understanding  why  nobody  would  play  with  us. 
I remember  I went  into  the  room  where  his 
body  lay,  and  my  mother  sate  weeping  alone 
by  it.  I had  my  battledore  in  my  hand,  and 
fell  a beating  the  coffin  and  calling  papa  ; for, 
I know  not  how,  I had  some  idea  that  he  was 
locked  up  there.  My  mother  caught  me  in  her 
arms,  and,  transported  beyond  all  patience  of 
the  silent  grief  she  was  before  in,  she  almost 
smothered  me  in  her  embraces,  and  told  me  in 
a flood  of  tears,  4 Papa  could  not  hear  me,  and 
would  play  with  me  no  more  : for  they  were 
going  to  put  him  under  ground,  whence  he 
Would  never  come  to  us  again.’  She  was  a 


140 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


very  beautiful  woman,  of  a noble  spirit,  and 
there  was  a dignity  in  her  grief,  amidst  all  the 
wildness  of  her  transport,  which  methought 
struck  me  with  an  instinct  of  sorrow  that,  be- 
fore I was  sensible  what  it  was  to  grieve,  seized 
my  very  soul,  and  has  made  pity  the  weakness 
of  my  heart  ever  since. ” 

Can  there  be  three  more  characteristic  moods 
of  minds  and  men?  u Fools,  do  you  know 
anything  of  this  mystery  ? ” says  Swift,  stamp- 
ing on  a grave,  and  carrying  his  scorn  for  man- 
kind actually  beyond  it.  “ Miserable,  purblind 
wretches,  how  dare  you  to  pretend  to  compre- 
hend the  Inscrutable,  and  how  can  }7our  dim 
e}Tes  pierce  the  unfathomable  depths  of  yonder 
boundless  heaven  ? ” Addison,  in  a much  kinder 
language  and  gentler  voice,  utters  much  the 
same  sentiment : and  speaks  of  the  rivalry  of 
wits,  and  the  contests  of  holy  men,  with  the 
same  sceptic  placidity.  u Look  what  a little 
vain  dust  we  are,”  he  says,  smiling  over  the 
tombstones  ; and  catching,  as  is  his  wont,  quite 
a divine  effulgence  as  he  looks  heavenward,  he 
speaks,  in  words  of  inspiration  almost  , of  66  the 
Great  Day,  when  we  shall  all  of  us  be  contem- 
poraries, and  make  our  appearance  together.” 
The  third,  whose  theme  is  Death,  too,  and 
who  will  speak  his  word  of  moral  as  Heaven 
teaches  him,  leads  you  up  to  his  father’s  coffin, 
and  shows  you  his  beautiful  mother  weeping, 
and  himself  an  unconscious  little  boy  wonder- 
ing at  her  side.  His  own  natural  tears  flow  as 
he  takes  your  hand  and  confidingly  asks  your 
sympathy.  u See  how  good  and  innocent  and 


STEELE . 


14  L 


beautiful  women  are,”  he  says  ; 44  how  tender 
little  children ! Let  us  love  these  and  one 
another,  brother  — God  knows  we  have  need 
of  love  and  pardon.”  So  it  is  each  looks  with 
his  own  eyes,  speaks  with  his  own  voice,  and 
prays  his  own  prayer. 

When  Steele  asks  your  sympathy  for  the 
actors  in  that  charming  scene  of  Love  and 
Grief  and  Death,  who  can  refuse  it?  One 
yields  to  it  as  to  the  frank  advance  of  a child, 
or  to  the  appeal  of  a woman.  A man  is  seldom 
more  manly  than  when  he  is  what  you  call  un- 
manned — the  source  of  his  emotion  is  cham- 
pionship, pit}T,  and  courage ; the  instinctive 
desire  to  cherish  those  who  are  innocent  and 
unhapp}7,  and  defend  those  who  are  tender  and 
weak.  If  Steele  is  not  our  friend  he  is  nothing. 
He  is  by  no  means  the  most  brilliant  of  wits 
nor  the  deepest  of  thinkers  : but  he  is  our 
friend : we  love  him,  as  children  love  their 
love  with  an  A,  because  he  is  amiable.  Who 
likes  a man  best  because  he  is  the  cleverest  or 
the  wisest  of  mankind  ; or  a woman  because 
she  is  the  most  virtuous,  or  talks  French  or 
plays  the  piano  better  than  the  rest  of  her  sex? 
I own  to  liking  Dick  Steele  the  man  and  Dick 
Steele  the  author,  much  better  than  much  bet- 
ter men  and  much  better  authors. 

The  misfortune  regarding  Steele  is,  that  most 
part  of  the  company  here  present  must  take 
his  amiability  upon  hearsay,  and  certainly  can’t 
make  his  intimate  acquaintance.  Not  that 
Steele  was  worse  than  his  time  ; on  the  con- 
trary, a far  better,  truer,  and  higher-hearted 


142 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS . 


man  than  most  who  lived  in  it.  But  things 
were  done  in  that  society,  and  names  were 
named,  which  would  make  you  shudder  now. 
What  would  be  the  sensation  of  a polite  3’outh 
of  the  present  day,  if  at  a ball  he  saw  the 
young  object  of  his  affections  taking  a box 
out  of  her  pocket  and  a pinch  of  snuff : or  if 
at  dinner,  by  the  charmer’s  side,  she  deliber- 
ately put  her  knife  into  her  mouth?  If  she 
cut  her  mother’s  throat  with  it,  mamma  would 
scarcely  be  more  shocked.  I allude  to  these 
peculiarities  of  by-gone  times  as  an  excuse  for 
my  favorite  Steele,  who  was  not  worse,  and 
often  much  more  delicate  than  his  neighbors. 

There  exists  a curious  document  descriptive 
of  the  manners  of  the  last  age,  which  describes 
most  minutely  the  amusements  and  occupa- 
tions of  persons  of  fashion  in  London  at  the 
time  of  which  we  are  speaking ; the  time  of 
Swift,  and  Addison,  and  Steele. 

When  Lord  Sparkish,  Tom  Neverout,  and 
Colonel  Alwit,  the  immortal  personages  of 
Swift’s  polite  conversation,  came  to  breakfast 
with  my  Lady  Smart,  at  eleven  o’c’ock  in  the 
morning,  my  Lord  Smart  was  absent  at  the 
levee.  His  lordship  was  at  home  to  dinner  at 
three  o’clock  to  receive  his  guests  ; and  we  may 
sit  down  to  this  meal,  like  the  Barmecide’s, 
and  see  the  fops  of  the  last  century  before  us. 
Seven  of  them  sat  down  at  dinner,  and  were 
joined  by  a country  baronet  who  told  them 
they  kept  Court  hours.  These  persons  of 
fashion  began  their  dinner  with  a sirloin  of 
beef,  fish,  a shoulder  of  veal,  and  a tongue. 


STEELE. 


143 


My  Lady  Smart  carved  the  sirloin,  my  Lady 
Auswerall  helped  the  fish,  and  the  gallant 
Colonel  cut  the  shoulder  of  veal.  All  made 
a considerable  inroad  on  the  sirloin  and  the 
shoulder  of  veal  wi  h the  exception  of  Sir 
John,  who  had  no  appetite,  having  already 
partaken  of  a beefsteak  and  two  mugs  of  ale, 
besides  a tankard  of  March  beer  as  soon  as  he 
got  out  of  bed.  They  drank  claret,  which  the 
master  of  the  house  said  should  always  be 
drunk  after  fish  ; and  my  Lord  Smart  particu- 
larly recommended  some  excellent  cider  to  my 
Lord  Sparkish,  which  occasioned  some  brilliant 
remarks  from  that  nobleman.  When  the  host 
called  for  wine,  he  nodded  to  one  or  other  of  his 
guests,  and  said,  u Tom  Neverout,  my  service 
to  you.” 

After  the  first  course  came  almond-pudding, 
fritters,  which  the  Colonel  took  with  his  hands 
out  of  the  dish,  in  order  to  help  the  brilliant 
Miss  Notable  ; chickens,  black  puddings,  and 
soup  ; and  Lady  Smart,  the  elegant  mistress 
of  the  mansion,  finding  a skewer  in  a dish, 
placed  it  in  her  plate  wfith  directions  that  it 
should  be  carried  dowrn  to  the  cook  and 
dressed  for  the  cook’s  owm  dinner.  Wine  and 
small  beer  were  drunk  during  the  second 
course  ; and  when  the  Colonel  called  for  beer, 
he  called  the  butler  Friend,  and  asked 
whether  the  beer  was  good.  Various  jocular 
remarks  passed  from  the  gentlefolks  to  the 
servants  ; at  breakfast  several  persons  had  a 
word  and  a joke  for  Mrs.  Betty,  my  lady’s 
maid,  who  warmed  the  cream  and  had  charge 


144 


ENGLISH  II U MO  It  IS  TS. 


of  the  canister  (the  tea  cost  thirty  shillings  a 
pound  in  those  days) . When  my  Lady  Spark- 
ish  sent  her  footman  out  to  my  Lady  Match 
to  come  at  six  o’clock  and  play  at  quadrille, 
her  ladyship  warned  the  man  to  follow  his 
nose,  and  if  he  fell  by  the  way  not  to  stay  to 
get  up  again.  And  when  the  gentleman 
asked  the  hall-porter  if  his  lady  was  at  home, 
that  functionary  replied,  with  manly  waggish- 
ness, u She  was  at  home  just  now,  but  she’s 
not  gone  out  yet/’ 

After  the  puddings,  sweet  and  black,  the 
fritters  and  soup,  came  the  third  course,  of 
which  the  chief  dish  was  a hot  venison  pasty, 
which  was  put  before  Lord  Smart,  and  carved 
by  that  nobleman.  Besides  the  pasty,  there 
was  a hare,  a rabbit,  some  pigeons,  partridges, 
a goose,  and  a ham.  Beer  and  wine  were 
freely  imbibed  during  this  course,  the  gentle- 
men always  pledging  somebody  with  every 
glass  which  they  drank  ; and  by  this  time  the 
conversation  between  Tom  Neverout  and  Miss 
Notable  had  grown  so  brisk  and  lively,  tl  at 
the  Derbyshire  baronet  began  to  think  the 
young  gentlewoman  was  Tom’s  sweetheart : 
on  which  Miss  remarked,  that  she  loved  Tom 
u like  pie.”  After  the  goose,  some  of  the 
gentlemen  took  a dram  of  brandy,  u which 
was  very  good  for  the  wholesomes,”  Sir  John 
said  ; and  now  having  had  a tolerably  sub- 
stantial dinner,  honest  Lord  Smart  bade  the 
butler  bring  up  the  great  tankard  full  of 
October  to  Sir  John.  The  great  tankard  was 
passed  from  hand  to  hand  and  mouth  to 


STEELE . 


m 


mouth $ but  when  pressed  by  the  noble  host 
upon  the  gallant  TomNeverout,  he  said,  u No, 
faith,  my  lord  ; I like  your  wine,  and  won't 
put  a churl  upon  a gentleman.  Your  honor's 
claret  is  good  enough  for  me."  And  so,  the 
dinner  over,  the  host  said,  “ Hang  saving, 
bring  us  up  a ha’porth  of  cheese." 

The  cloth  was  now  taken  away,  and  a bottle 
of  burgundy  was  set  down,  of  which  the  ladies 
were  invited  to  partake  before  they  went  to 
their  tea.  When  they  withdrew,  the  gentle- 
men promised  to  join  them  in  an  hour : fresh 
bottles  were  brought ; the  u dead  men,"  mean- 
ing the  empty  bottles,  removed  ; and  u D’  you 
hear,  John ! bring  clean  glasses,"  my  Lord 
Sm^t  said.  On  which  the  gallant  Colonel 
Alwit  said,  u I'll  keep  my  glass  ; for  wine  is 
the  best  liquor  to  wash  glasses  in." 

After  an  hour  the  gentlemefF  joined  the 
ladies,  and  then  they  all  sat  and  played  qua- 
drille until  three  o’clock  in  the  morning,  when 
the  chairs  and  flambeaux  came,  and  this  noble 
company  went  to  bed. 

Such  were  manners  six  or  seven  score  years 
ago.  I draw  no  inference  from  this  queer  pic- 
ture : let  all  moralists  here  present  deduce  their 
own.  Fancy  the  moral  condition  of  that  society 
in  which  a lady  of  fashion  joked  with  a foot- 
man, and  carved  a sirloin,  and  provided  besides 
a great  shoulder  of  veal,  a goose,  hare,  rabbit, 
chickens,  patridges,  black  puddings,  and  a 
ham  for  a dinner  for  eight  Christians.  What 
— what  could  have  been  the  condition  of  that 
polite  world  in  which  people  openly  ate  goose 
10 


1 4 6 ENGLISH  H UM01US  TS. 

after  almoncl-pudding,  and  took  their  soup  in 
the  middle  of  dinner?  Fancy  a Colonel  in  the 
Guards  putting  his  hand  into  a dish  of  beignets 
d'abricot  and  helping  his  neighbor,  a young 
lady  du  monde!  Fancy  a noble  Lord  calling 
out  to  the  servants,  before  the  ladies  at  his 
table,  u Hang  expense,  bring  us  a ha’porth  of 
cheese  ! ” Such  were  the  ladies  of  St.  James’s, 
such  were  the  frequenters  of  “White’s  Choc- 
olate-House,” when  Swift  used  to  visit  it,  and 
Steele  described  it  as  the  centre  of  pleasure, 
gallantry,  and  entertainment,  a hundred  and 
forty  years  ago  ! 

Dennis,  who  ran  amuck  at  the  literary  soci- 
ety of  his  clay,  falls  foul  of  poor  Steele,  and 
thus  depicts  him:  46  Sir  John  Edgar,  of  the 
county  of in  Ireland,  is  of  a middle  stat- 

ure, broad  shoulders,  thick  legs,  a shape  like 
the  picture  of  somebody  over  a farmer’s  chim- 
ney— a short  chin,  a short  nose,  a short  fore- 
head, a broad  flat  face,  and  a dusky  counte- 
nance. Yet  wflth  such  a face  and  such  a 
shape,  he  discovered  at  sixty  that  he  took 
himself  for  a beauty,  and  appeared  to  be  more 
mortified  at  being  told  that  he  was  ugly,  than 
he  was  by  any  reflection  made  upon  his  honor 
or  understanding. 

44  He  is  a gentleman  born,  witness  himself, 
of  very  honorable  family  ; certainly  of  a very 
ancient  one,  for  his  ancestors  flourished  in 
Tipperary  long  before  the  English  ever  set 
foot  in  Ireland.  He  has  testimony  of  this 
more  authentic  than  the  Herald’s  Office,  or 
any  human  testimony.  For  God  has  marked 


STEELE, 


147 


him  more  abundantly  than  he  did  Cain,  and 
stamped  his  native  country  on  his  face,  his 
understanding,  his  writings,  his  actions,  his 
passions,  and,  above  all,  his  vanity.  The 
Hibernian  brogue  is  still  upon  all  these, 
though  long  habit  and  length  of  days  have 
worn  it  off  his  tongue.”* 

Although  this  portrait  is  the  work  of  a man 
who  was  neither  the  friend  of  Steele  nor  of 


* Steele  replied  to  Deunis  in  an  “ Answer  to  a Whimsical 
Pamphlet,  called  the  Character  of  Sir  John  Edgar.”  What 
Steele  had  to  say  against  the  cross-grained  old  Critic  discovers  a 
great  deal  of  humor  : — 

‘‘Thou  never  didst  let  the  sun  into  thy  garret,  for  fear  he 
should  bring  a bailiff  along  with  him.  . . . 

“Your  years  are  about  sixty-five,  an  ugly,  vinegar  face,  that 
if  you  had  any  command  you  would  be  obeyed  out  of  fear,  from 
your  ill-nature  pictured  there;  not  from  any  other  motive. 
Your  height  is  about  some  five  feet  five  inches.  You  see  I can 
give  your  exact  measure  as  well  as  if  I had  taken  your  dimen- 
sion with  a good  cudgel,  which  I promise  you  to  do  as  soon  as 
ever  I have  the  good  fortune  to  meet  you.  . . . 

“Your  doughty  paunch  stands  before  you  like  a firkin  of 
butter,  and  your  duck  legs  seem  -to  be  cast  for  carrying  burdens. 

“Thy  works  are  libels  upon  others,  and  satires  upon  thyself; 
and  while  they  bark  at  men  of  sense,  call  him  knave  and  fool 
that  wrote  them.  Thou  hast  a great  antipathy  to  thy  own 
species;  and  hatest  the  sight  of  a fool  but  in  thy  glass.” 

Steele  had  been  kind  to  Dennis,  and  once  got  arrested  on 
account  of  a pecuniary  service  which  he  did  him.  When  John 
heard  of  the  fact— “ S’death ! ” cries  John;  “ why  did  not  he 
keep  out  of  the  way  as  I did?  ” 

The  “Answer”  concludes  by  mentioning  that  Cibber  had 
offered  ten  pounds  for  the  discovery  of  the  authorship  of  Den- 
nis’s pamphlet;  on  which,  says  Steele,  “I  am  only  sorry  he 
has  offered  so  much,  because  the  twentieth  part  would  have 
over  valued  his  whole  carcase.  But  I know  the  fellow  that  he 
keeps  to  give  answers  to  his  creditors  will  betray  him  ; for  he 
gave  me  his  word  to  bring  officers  on  the  top  of  the  house  that 
should  make  a hole  through  the  ceiling  of  his  garret,  and  so 
bring  him  to  the  punishment  he  deserves.  Some  people  think 
this  expedient  out  of  the  way,  and  that  he  would  make  his 
escape  upon  hearing  the  least  noise.  I say  so  too ; but  it  takes 
him  up  half  an  hour  every  night  to  fortify  himself  with  his  old 
hair  trunk,  two  or  three  joint-stools,  and  some  other  lumber, 
which  he  ties  together  with  cords  so  fast  that  it  takes  him  up 
the  same  time  in  the  morning  to  release  himself.” 


148 


ENGLISH  HUMOBISTS. 


imy  other  man  alive,  yet  there  is  a dreadful 
resemblance  to  the  original  in  the  savage  and 
exaggerated  traits  of  the  caricature,  and 
everybody  who  knows  him  must  recognize 
Dick  Steele.  Dick  set  about  almost  all  the 
undertakings  of  his  life  with  inadequate 
means,  and,  as  he  took  and  furnished  a house 
with  the  most  generous  intentions  towards  his 
friends,  the  most  tender  gallantry  towards  his 
wife,  and  with  this  only  drawback,  that  he 
had  not  wherewithal  to  pay  the  rent  when 
quarter-day  came, — so,  in  his  life  he  proposed 
to  himself  the  most  magnificent  schemes  of 
virtue,  forbearance,  public  and  private  good, 
and  the  advancement  of  his  own  and  the  na- 
tional religion  ; but  when  he  had  to  pay  for 
these  articles  — so  difficult  to  purchase  and  so 
costly  to  maintain  — poor  Dick’s  money  was 
not  forthcoming  : and  when  Virtue  called  with 
her  little  bill,  Dick  made  a shuffling  excuse 
that  he  could  not  see  her  that  morning,  hav- 
ing a headache  from  being  tipsy  overnight ; or 
when  stern  Duty  rapped  at  the  door  with  his 
account,  Dick  was  absent  and  not  ready  to 
pay.  He  was  shirking  at  the  tavern  ; or  had 
some  particular  business  (of  somebody’s  else) 
at  the  ordinary  : or  he  was  in  hiding,  or  worse 
than  in  hiding,  in  the  lock-up  house.  What  a 
situation  for  a man  ! — for  a philanthropist  — 
for  a lover  of  right  and  truth  — for  a magnifi- 
cent designer  and  schemer ! Not  to  dare  to 
look  in  the  face  the  Religion  which  he  adored 
and  which  he  had  offended : to  have  to  shirk 
down  back  lanes  and  alleys,  so  as  to  avoid  the 


STEELE. 


149 


friend  whom  he  loved  and  who  had  trusted 
him  ; to  have  the  house  which  he  had  intended 
for  his  wife,  whom  he  loved  passionately,  and 
for  her  ladyship’s  company  which  he  wished  to 
entertain  splendidly,  in  the  possession  of  a 
bailiff’s  man  ; with  a crowd  of  little  creditors 
— grocers,  butchers,  and  small-coal  men  — 
lingering  round  the  door  with  their  bills  and 
jeering  at  him.  Alas  ! for  poor  Dick  Steele  ! 
For  nobody  else,  of  course.  There  is  no  man 
or  woman  in  our  time  who  makes  fine  projects 
and  gives  them  up  from  idleness  or  want  of 
means.  When  Dut}7  calls  upon  ws,  we  no 
doubt  are  always  at  home  and  ready  to  pay 
that  grim  tax-gatherer.  When  ive  are  stricken 
with  remorse  and  promise  reform,  we  keep 
our  promise,  and  are  never  angry,  or  idle,  or 
extravagant  any  more.  There  are  no  cham- 
bers in  our  hearts,  destined  for  family  friends 
and  affections,  and  now  occupied  b}7  some 
Sin's  emissary  and  bailiff  in  possession. 
There  are  no  little  sins,  shabby  peccadilloes, 
importunate  remembrances,  or  disappointed 
holders  of  our  promises  to  reform,  hover- 
ing at  our  steps,  or  knocking  at  our  door ! 
Of  course  not.  We  are  living  in  the  nine- 
teenth century  ; and  poor  Dick  Steele  stum- 
bled and  got  up  again,  and  got  into  jail 
and  out  again,  and  sinned  and  repented,  and 
loved  and  suffered,  and  lived  and  died,  scores 
of  years  ago.  Peace  be  with  him  ! Let  us 
think  gently  of  one  who  was  so  gentle  : let  us 
speak  kindly  of  one  whose  own  breast  exu- 
berated with  human  kindness. 


PRIOR,  GAY,  AND  POPE. 

Matthew  Prior  was  one  of  those  famous 
and  lucky  wits  of  the  auspicious  reign  of 
Queen  Anne,  whose  name  it  behooves  us  not 
to  pass  over.  Mat  was  a world-philosopher 
of  no  small  genius,  good-nature,  and  acumen.* 


* Gray  calls  him,  “ Dear  Prior  . . . beloved  by  every  muse.” 
— Mr.  Pope's  Welcome  from  Greece. 

Swift  and  Prior  were  very  intimate,  and  he  is  frequently 
mentioned  in  the  “ Journal  to  Stella.”  “ Mr.  Prior,”  says 
Swift,  “ walks  to  make  himself  fat,  and  I to  keep  myself 
down.  . . . We  often  walk  round  the  park  together.” 

In  Swift’s  works  there  is  a curious  tract  called  “Remarks 
on  the  Characters  of  the  Court  of  Queen  Anne.”  [Scott’s  edi- 
tion, vol.  xii.]  The  remarks  are  not  by  the  Dean;  but  at  the 
end  of  each  is  an  addition  in  italics  from  his  hand,  and  these  are 
always  characteristic.  Thus,  to  the  Duke  of  Marlborough,  he 
adds,  “ Detestably  covetous ,”  etc.  Prior  is  thus  noticed  : — 

“Matthew  Prior,  Esq.,  Commissioner  of  Trade. 

“ On  the  Queen’s  accession  to  the  throne,  he  was  continued 
in  his  office ; is  very  well  at  court  with  the  ministry,  and  is  an 
entire  creature  of  my  Lord  Jersey’s,  whom  he  supports  by  his 
advice;  is  one  of  the  best  poets  in  England,  but  very  facetious 
in  conversation.  A thin,  hollow-looked  man,  turned  of  forty 
years  old.  This  is  near  the  truth." 

“ Yet  counting  as  far  as  to  fifty  his  years, 

His  virtues  and  vices  were  as  other  men’s  are. 

High  hopes  he  conceived  and  he  smothered  great  fears, 

In  a life  party  colored  — half  pleasure,  half  care. 

“ Not  to  business  a drudge,  nor  to  faction  a slave, 

He  strove  to  make  interest  and  freedom  agree; 

In  public  employments  industrious  and  grave, 

And  alone  with  his  friends,  Lord,  how  merry  was  he! 

“ Now  in  equipage  stately,  now  humble  on  foot, 

Both  fortunes  he  tried,  but  to  neither  would  trust; 

And  whirled  in  the  round  as  the  wheel  turned  about, 

He  found  riches  had  wings,  and  knew  man  was  but  dust,” 
Prior’s  Poems.  \For  my  own  monument .] 


PRIOR,  GAY ; AND  POPE. 


151 


He  loved,  he  drank,  he  sang.  He  describes 
himself,  in  one  of  his  lyrics,  u in  a little 
Dutch  chaise  on  a Saturday  night ; on  his  left 
hand  his  Horace,  and  a friend  on  his  right,” 
going  out  of  town  from  the  Hague  to  pass 
that  evening,  and  the  ensuing  Sunday  boozing 
at  a Spielhaus  with  his  companions,  perhaps 
bobbing  for  perch  in  a Dutch  canal  and  not- 
ing down,  in  a strain  and  with  a grace  not 
unworthy  of  his  Epicurean  master,  the  charms 
of  his  idleness,  his  retreat,  and  his  Batavian 
Chloe.  A vintner’s  son  in  Whitehall,  and  a 
distinguished  pupil  of  Busby  of  the  Rod, 
Prior  attracted  some  nolice  by  writing  verses 
at  St.  John’s  College,  Cambridge,  and,  com- 
ing up  to  town,  aided  Montague*  in  an  attack 
on  the  noble  old  English  lion,  John  Dryden ; 
in  ridicule  of  whose  work,  “The  Hind  and 
the  Panther,”  he  brought  out  that  remarkable 
and  famous  burlesque,  “The  Town  and 
Country  Mouse.”  Aren’t  you  all  acquainted 
with  it?  Have  you  not  all  got  it  by  heart? 
What!  have  you  never  heard  of  it?  See 
what  fame  is  made  of  ! The  wonderful  part  of 
the  satire  was,  that,  as  a natural  consequence 
of  “ The  Town  and  Country  Mouse,”  Matthew 
Prior  was  made  Secretary  of  Embassy  at  the 
Hague  ! I believe  it  is  dancing,  rather  than 


* “ They  joined  to  produce  a parody,  entitled  the  ‘ Town 
and  Country  Mouse,’  part  of  which  Mr.  Bayes  is  supposed  to 
gratify  his  old  friends,  Smart  and  Johnson,  by  repeating  to 
them.  The  piece  is  therefore  founded  upon  the  twice-told 
jest  of  the  ‘ Rehearsal.’  . . . There  is  nothing  new  or  original 
in  the  idea.  ...  In  this  piece,  Prior,  though  the  younger  man, 
seems  to  have  had  by  far  the  largest  share,” — Scott’s  Dryden , 
vol.  i.  p.  330. 


152 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


singing,  which  distinguishes  the  young  English 
diplomatists  of  the  present  day ; and  have 
seen  them  in  various  parts  perform  that  part 
of  their  duty  very  finely.  In  Prior’s  time  it 
appears  a different  accomplishment  led  to  pre- 
ferment. Could  you  write  a copy  of  Alcaics? 
that  was  the  question.  Could  you  turn  out  a 
neat  epigram  or  two?  Could  you  compose 
“ The  Town  and  Country  Mouse”?  It  is 
manifest  that,  by  the  possession  of  this  fac- 
ulty, the  most  difficult  treaties,  the  laws  of 
foreign  nations,  and  the  interests  of  our  own 
are  easily  understood.  Prior  rose  in  the  dip- 
lomatic service,  and  said  good  things,  that 
proved  his  sense  and  his  spirit.  When  the 
apartments  at  Versailles  were  shown  to  him, 
with  the  victories  of  Louis  XIV.  painted  on 
the  walls,  and  Prior  was  asked  whether  the 
palace  of  the  king  of  England  had  any  such 
decorations,  “ The  monuments  of  my  master’s 
actions,”  Mat  said,  of  William,  whom  he  cor- 
dially revered,  “are  to  be  seen  everywhere 
except  in  his  own  house.”  Bravo,  Mat ! 
Prior  rose  to  be  full  ambassador  at  Paris,* 

* “ He  was  to  have  been  in  the  same  commission  with  the 
Duke  of  Shrewsbury,  but  that  that  nobleman,”  says  Johnson,” 
“ refused  to  be  associated  with  one  so  meanly  born.  Prior 
therefore  continued  to  act  without  a title  till  the  Duke’s  return 
next  year  to  England,  and  then  he  assumed  the  style  and  dignity 
of  ambassador.” 

He  had  been  thinking  of  slights  of  this  sort  when  he  wrote 
his  Epitaph  : — 

“ Nobles  and  heralds,  by  your  leave, 

Here  lies  what  once  was  Matthew  Prior, 

The  son  of  Adam  and  of  Eve ; 

Can  Bourbon  or  Nassau  claim  higher?  ” 

But,  in  this  case,  the  old  prejudice  got  the  better  of  the  old 
joke. 


PRIOR , GAY,  AND  POPE. 


153 


where  he  somehow  was  cheated  out  of  his  am- 
bassadorial plate ; and  in  an  heroic  poem, 
addressed  by  him  to  her  late  lamented  Maj- 
esty, Queen  Anne,  Mat  makes  some  magnifi- 
cent allusions  to  these  dishes  and  spoons,  of 
which  Fate  had  deprived  him.  All  that  he 
wants,  he  says,  is  her  Majesty’s  picture ; 
without  that  he  can’t  be  happy. 

“ Thee,  gracious  Anne,  thee  present  I adore  : 

Thee,  Queen  of  Peace,  if  Time  and  Fate  have  power 
Higher  to  raise  the  glories  of  thy  reign, 

In  words  sublimer  and  a nobler  strain 
May  future  bards  the  mighty  theme  rehearse. 

Here,  Stator  Jove,  and  Phoebus,  king  of  verse, 

The  votive  tablet  I suspend.” 

With  that  word  the  poem  stops  abruptly.  The 
votive  tablet  is  suspended  forever,  like  Ma- 
homet’s coffin.  News  came  that  the  Queen 
was  dead.  Stator  Jove,  and  Phoebus,  king  of 
verse,  were  left  there,  hovering  to  this  day, 
over  the  votive  tablet.  The  picture  was  never 
got,  any  more  than  the  spoons  and  dishes : 
the  inspiration  ceased,  the  verses  were  not 
wanted  — the  ambassador  wasn’t  wanted. 
Poor  Mat  was  recalled  from  his  embassy,  suf- 
fered disgrace  along  with  his  patrons,  lived 
under  a sort  of  cloud  ever  after,  and  disap- 
peared in  Essex.  When  deprived  of  all  his 
pensions  and  emoluments,  the  hearty  and 
generous  Oxford  pensioned  him.  They  played 
for  gallant  stakes  — the  bold  men  of  those 
days  — and  lived  and  gave  splendidly. 

Johnson  quotes  from  Spence  a legend,  that 
Prior,  after  spending  an  evening  with  Harley, 


154 


ENGLISH  HUM  OBIS  TS. 


St.  John,  Pope,  and  Swift,  would  go  off  and 
smoke  a pipe  with  a couple  of  friends  of  his, 
a soldier  and  his  wife,  in  Long  Acre.  Those 
who  have  not  read  his  lave  Excellency’s  poems 
should  be  warned  that  they  smack  not  a little 
of  the  conversation  of  his  Long  Acre  friends. 
Johnson  speaks  slightingly  of  his  lyrics;  but 
with  due  deference  to  the  great  Samuel,  Prior’s 
seem  to  me  amongst  the  easiest,  the  richest, 
the  most  charmingly  humorous  of  English 
lyrical  poems.* **  Horace  is  a’wa}Ts  in  his  mind  ; 
and  his  song,  and  his  philosophy,  his  good 
sense,  his  happy  easy  turns  and  melody,  his 
loves  and  his  Epicureanism  bear  a great  re- 
semblance to  that  most  delightful  and  accom- 
plished master.  In  reading  his  works  one  is 


* His  epigrams  have  the  genuine  sparkle  : 

t(  The  Remedy  worse  than  the  Disease, 

“ I sent  for  Radcliff ; was  so  ill, 

That  other  doctors  gave  me  over : 

He  felt  my  pulse,  prescribed  his  pill, 

And  I was  likely  to  recover. 

“ But  when  the  wit  began  to  wheeze, 

And  wine  had  warmed  the  politician, 
Cured  yesterday  of  my  disease, 

I died  last  night  of  my  physician.” 

” Yes,  every  poet  is  a fool ; 

By  demonstration  Ned  can  show  it; 
Happy  could  Ned’s  inverted  rule 
Prove  every  fool  to  be  a poet.” 

” On  his  death-bed  poor  Lubin  lies, 

His  spouse  is  in  despair; 

With  frequent  sobs  and  mutual  cries, 

They  both  express  their  care. 

** 1 A different  cause,’  says  Parson  Sly, 

* The  same  effect  may  give ; 

Poor  Lubin  fears  that  he  shall  die, 

His  wife  that  he  may  live.’  ” 


PBIOB , GAY,  AND  POPE. 


155 


struck  with  their  modern  air,  as  well  as  by 
their  happy  similarity  to  the  songs  of  the 
charming  owner  of  the  Sabine  farm.  In  his 
verses  addressed  to  Halifax,  he  says,  writing 
of  that  endless  theme  to  poets,  the  vanity  of 
human  wishes : — 

“ So  whilst  in  fevered  dreams  we  sink, 

And  waking,  taste  what  we  desire, 

The  real  draught  but  feeds  the  fire, 

The  dream  is  better  than  the  drink. 

“ Our  hopes  like  towering  falcons  aim 
At  objects  in  an  airy  height : 

To  stand  aloof  and  view  the  flight, 

Is  all  the  pleasure  of  the  game.” 

Would  not  you  fancy  that  a poet  of  our  own 
days  was  singing?  and  in  the  verses  of  Chloe 
weeping  and  reproaching  him  for  his  incon- 
stancy, where  he  says  : — 

“ The  God  of  us  versemen,  you  know,  child,  the  Sun, 
How,  after  his  journeys,  he  sets  up  bis  rest. 

If  at  morning  o’er  earth  ’t  is  his  fancy  to  run, 

At  night  he  declines  on  his  Thetis’s  breast. 

“ So,  when  I am  wearied  with  wandering  all  day, 

To  thee,  my  delight,  in  the  evening  I come : 

No  matter  what  beauties  I saw  in  my  way ; 

They  were  but  my  visits,  but  thou  art  my  home! 

“ Then  finish,  Dear  Chloe,  this  pastoral  war, 

And  let  us  like  Horace  and  Lydia  agree : 

For  thou  art  a girl  as  much  brighter  than  her, 

As  he  was  a poet  sublimer  than  me.” 

If  Prior  read  Horace,  did  not  Thomas  Moore 
study  Prior?  Love  and  pleasure  find  singers 
in  all  days.  Poses  are  always  blowing  and 
fading  — to-day  as  in  that  pretty  time  when 


156 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


Prior  sang  of  them,  and  of  Chloe  lamenting 
their  cleca}? : — 

“ She  sighed,  she  smiled,  and  to  the  flowers 
Pointing,  the  lovely  moralist  said  : 

See,  friend,  in  some  few  fleeting  hours, 

See  yonder  what  a change  is  made! 

“ ivh  me ! the  blooming  pride  of  May 
And  that  of  Beauty  are  but  one : 

At  morn  both  flourish,  bright  and  gay, 

Both  fade  at  evening,  pale  and  gone. 

“ At  dawn  poor  Stella  danced  and  sung, 

The  amorous  youth  around  her  bowed: 

At  night  her  fatal  knell  was  rung ; 

I saw,  and  kissed  her  in  her  shroud. 

“ Such  as  she  is  who  died  to-day, 

Such  I,  alas,  may  be  to-morrow: 

Go,  Damon,  bid  thy  Muse  display 
The  justice  of  thy  Chloe’s  sorrow'.” 


Damon’s  knell  was  rung  in  1721.  May  his 
turf  lie  lightly  on  him  ! Deus  sit  propitius  huic 
potatori , as  Walter  cle  Mapes  sang.*  Perhaps 


* Prior  to  Sir  Thomas  Hanmer. 

‘ Aug.  4,  1709. 

“ Dear  Sir , — Friendship  may  live,  I grant  you,  without 
being  fed  and  cherished  by  correspondence;  but  with  that  addi- 
tional benefit  I am  of  opinion  it  will  look  more  cheerful  and 
thrive  better:  for  in  this  case,  as  in  love,  though  a man  is  sure 
of  his  own  constancy,  yet  his  happiness  depends  a good  deal  upon 
the  sentiments  of  another,  and  while  you  and  Chloe  are  alive, 
’t  is  not  enough  that  1 love  you  both,  except  I am  sure  you  both 
love  me  again ; and  as  one  of  her  scrawls  fortifies  my  mind  more 
against  affliction  than  all  Epictetus,  with  Simplicius’s  comments 
into  the  bargain,  so  your  single  letter  gave  me  more  real  pleas- 
ure than  all  the  works  of  Plato.  ...  I must  return  my  answer 
to  your  very  kind  question  concerning  my  health.  The  Bath 
waters  have"  done  a good  deal  towards  the  recovery  of  it,  and 
the  great  specific,  Cape  caballum , will,  I think,  confirm  it. 
Upon  this  head  I must  tell  you  that  my  mare  Betty  grows  blind, 
and  may  one  day,  by  breaking  my  neck,  perfect  my  cure : if  at 
Rixham  fair  any  pretty  nag  that  is  between  thirteen  and  four, 
teen  hands  presented  himself,  and  you  would  be  pleased  to  pur. 


PRIOR,  GAY,  AND  POPE . 


157 


Samuel  Johnson,  who  spoke  slightingly  of 
Prior’s  verses,  enjoyed  them  more  than  he 
was  willing  to  own.  The  old  moralist  had 
studied  them  as  well  as  Mr.  Thomas  Moore, 


chase  him  for  me,  one  of  your  servants  might  ride  him  to  Euston, 
and  I might  receive  him  there.  This,  sir,  is  just  as  such  a thing 
happens.  If  you  hear,  too,  of  a Welch  widow,  with  a good 
jointure,  that  has  her  goings  and  is  not  very  skittish,  pray,  be 
pleased  to  cast  your  eye  on  her  for  me  too.  You  see,  sir,  the 
great  trust  I repose  in  your  skill  and  honor,  when  I dare  put  two 
such  commissions  in  your  hand.  ...”  — The  Hanmer  Corre- 
spondence, p.  120. 

“From  Mr.  Prior. 

“ Paris,  1st  — 12th  May,  1714. 

“ My  Dear  Lord  and  Friend , — Matthew  never  had  so  great 
occasion  to  write  a word  to  Henry  as  now  : it  is  noised  here  that 
I am  soon  to  return.  The  question  that  I wish  I could  answer 
to  the  many  that  ask,  and  to  our  friend  Colbert  de  Torcy  (to 
whom  I made  your  compliments  in  the  manner  you  commanded) 
is,  what  is  done  for  me;  and  to  what  I am  recalled?  It  may 
look  like  a bagatelle,  what  is  to  become  of  a philosopher  like 
me?  but  it  is  not  such  : what  is  to  become  of  a person  who  had 
the  honor  to  be  chosen,  and  sent  hither  as  intrusted,  in  the  midst 
of  a war,  with  what  the  Queen  designed  should  make  the  peace; 
returning  with  the  Lord  Bolingbroke,  one  of  the  greatest  men  in 
England,  and  one  of  the  finest  heads  in  Europe  (as  they  say 
here,  if  true  or  not,  n’importe) ; having  been  left  by  him  in  the 
greatest  character  (that  of  Her  Majesty’s  Plenipotentiary),  exer- 
cising that  power  conjointly  with  the  Duke  of  Shrewsbury,  and 
solely  after  his  departure;  having  here  received  more  distin- 
guished honor  than  any  Minister,  except  an  Ambassador,  ever 
did,  and  some  which  were  never  given  to  any  but  who  had  that 
character;  having  had  all  the  success  that  could  be  expected; 
having  (God  be  thanked!)  spared  no  pains,  at  a time  when  at 
home  the  peace  is  voted  safe  and  honorable  — at  a time  when  the 
Earl  of  Oxford  is  Lord  Treasurer  and  Lord  Bolingbroke  First 
Secretary  of  State?  This  unfortunate  person,  I say,  neglected, 
forgot,  unnamed  to  anything  that  may  speak  the  Queen  satisfied 
with  his  services,  or  his  friends  concerned  as  to  his  fortune. 

“ Mr.  de  Torcy  put  me  quite  out  of  countenance,  the  other 
day,  by  a pity  that  wounded  me  deeper  than  ever  did  the  cruelty 
of  the  late  Lord  Godolphin.  He  said  he  would  write  to  Robin 
and  Harry  about  me.  God  forbid,  my  lord,  that  I should  need 
any  foreign  intercession,  or  owe  the  least  to  any  Frenchman 
living,  besides  the  decency  of  behavior  and  the  returns  of  com- 
mon civility  : some  say  I am  to  go  to  Baden,  others  that  I am  to 
be  added  to  the  Commissioners  for  settling  the  commerce.  In 
all  cases  I am  ready,  but  in  the  mean  time,  die  aliquid  de  tribus 
Capellis . Neither  of  these  two  are,  I presume,  honors  or  re- 


158 


ENGLISH  HUMOIIISTS. 


and  defended  them  and  showed  that  he  re* 
membered  them  very  well  too,  on  an  occasion 
when  their  morality  was  called  in  question 
by  that  noted  puritan,  James  Boswell,  Esq.,  of 
Auchinleck.* 


wards,  neither  of  them  (let  me  say  to  my  dear  Lord  Bolingbroke, 
and  let  him  not  be  angry  with  me)  are  what  Drift  may  aspire 
to,  and  what  Mr.  Whitworth,  who  was  his  fellow-clerk,  has  or 
may  possess.  I am  far  from  desiring  to  lessen  the  great  merit 
of  the  gentleman  I named,  for  I heartily  esteem  and  love  him; 
but  in  this  trade  of  ours,  my  lord,  in  which  you  are  the  general, 
as  in  that  of  the  soldiery,  there  is  a certain  right  acquired  by 
time  and  long  service.  You  would  do  anything  for  your  Queen’s 
service,  but  you  would  not  be  contented  to  descend,  and  be 
degraded  to  a charge,  no  way  proportioned  to  that  of  Secretary 
of  State,  any  more  than  Mr.  Ross,  though  he  would  charge  a 
party  with  a halbard  in  his  hand,  would  be  content  all  his  life 
after  to  be  Serjeant.  Was  my  Lord  Dartmouth,  from  Secretary, 
returned  again  to  be  Commissioner  of  Trade,  or  from  Secretary 
of  War,  would  Frank  Gwyn  think  himself  kindly  used  to  be 
returned  again  to  be  Commissioner?  In  short,  my  lord,  you 
have  put  me  above  myself,  and  if  I am  to  return  to  myself,  I 
shall  return  to  something  very  discontented  and  uneasy.  I am 
sure,  my  lord,  you  will  make  the  best  use  you  can  of  this  hint 
for  my  good.  If  I am  to  have  anything,  it  will  certainly  be  for 
Her  Majesty’s  service,  and  the  credit  of  my  friends  in  the  Minis- 
try, that  it  be  done  before  I am  recalled  from  home,  lest  the 
world  may  think  either  that  I have  merited  to  be  disgraced,  or 
that  ye  dare  not  stand  by  me.  If  nothing  is  to  be  done,  fiat  vo- 
lant rs  Dei.  I have  w rit  to  Lord  Treasurer  upon  this  subject, 
and  having  implored  your  kind  intercession,  I promise  you  it  is 
the  last  remonstrance  of  this  kind  that  I will  ever  make.  Adieu, 
my  lord;  all  honor,  health,  and  pleasure  to  you. 

“ Yours  ever,  Matt.” 

“ P.  S.  — Lady  Jersey  is  just  gone  from  me.  We  drank  your 
healths  together  in  usquebaugh  after  our  tea  : we  are  the  great- 
est friends  alive.  Once  more  adieu.  There  is  no  such  thing  as 
the ‘Book  of  Travels’  you  mentioned;  if  there  be,  let  friend 
Tilson  send  us  more  particular  account  of  them,  for  neither  I 
nor  Jacob  Tonson  can  find  them.  Pray  send  Barton  back  to  me, 
I hope  with  some  comfortable  tidings.”  — Bolingbroke' s Letters. 

* “ I asked  wThether  Prior’s  poems  were  to  be  printed  entire; 
Johnson  said  they  were.  I mentioned  Lord  Hales’  censure  of 
Prior  in  his  preface  to  a collection  of  sacred  poems,  by  various 
hands,  published  by  him  at  Edinburgh  a great  many  years  ago, 
where  he  mentions  ‘ these  impure  tales,  w'hich  will  be  the  eter- 
nal opprobrium  of  their  ingenious  author.’  Johnson  : * Sir, 
Lord  Hales  has  forgot.  There  is  nothing  in  Prior  that  will 
excite  to  lewdness.  If  Lord  Hales  thinks  there  is,  he  must  be 


PRIOR , GAY,  AND  POPE. 


159 


In  the  great  society  of  the  wits,  John  Gay 
deserved  to  be  a favorite,  and  to  have  a good 
place.* *  In  his  set  all  were  fond  of  him.  His 
success  offended  nobody.  He  missed  a for- 
tune once  or  twice.  He  was  talked  of  for 
Court  favor,  and  hoped  to  win  it ; but  the 
Court  favor  jilted  him.  Craggs  gave  him  some 
South  Sea  stock ; and  at  one  time  Gay  had 
very  nearly  made  his  fortune.  But  Fortune 
shook  her  swift  wings  and  jilted  him  too  : and 
so  his  friends,  instead  of  being  angry  with  him, 
and  jealous  of  him,  were  kind  and  fond  of 
honest  Gay.  In  the  portraits  of  the  literary 
worthies  of  the  early  part  of  the  last  century, 
Gay's  face  is  the  pleasantest  perhaps  of  ail. 
It  appears  adorned  with  neither  periwig  nor 
nightcap  (the  full  dress  and  negligee  of  learn- 


raore  combustible  than  other  people.*  I instanced  the  tale  of 
‘ Paulo  Purganti  and  his  Wife.’  Johnson  : ‘ Sir,  there  is  noth- 
ing there  but  that  his  wife  wanted  to  be  kissed,  when  poor  Paulo 
was  out  of  pocket.  No,  sir,  Prior  is  a lady’s  book.  No  lady  is 
ashamed  to  have  it  standing  in  her  library.” — Boswell’s  Life 
of  Johnson. 

* Gay  was  of  an  old  Devonshire  family,  but  his  pecuniary  pros- 
pects not  being  great,  was  placed  in  his  youth  in  the  house  of  a 
silk-mercer  in  London.  lie  was  born  in  1688  — Pope’s  year, 
and  in  1712  the  Duchess  of  Monmouth  made  him  her  secretary. 
Next  year  he  published  his  “ Rural  Sports,”  which  he  dedicated 
to  Pope,  and  so  made  an  acquaintance,  which  became  a memo- 
rable friendship. 

“Gay,”  says  Pope,  “ wras  quite  a natural  man,  — wholly 
without  art  or  design,  and  spoke  just  what  he  thought  and  as  he 
thought  it.  He  dangled  for  twenty  years  about  a court,  and  at 
last  was  offered  to  be  made  usher  to  the  young  princesses.  Sec- 
retary Craggs  made  Gay  a present  of  stock  in  the  South  Sea 
year;  and  he  was  once  worth  £20,000  but  lost  it  all  again.  He 
got  about  £400  by  the  first  ‘Beggar’s  Opera,’ and  £1,100  or 
£1,200  by  the  second.  He  was  negligent  and  a bad  manager. 
Latterly,  the  Duke  of  Queensberry  took  his  money  into  his  keep- 
ing, and  let  him  only  have  what  was  necessary  out  of  it,  and, 
as  he  lived  with  them,  he  could  not  have  occasion  for  much. 
He  died  worth  upwards  of  £3,000,”— • Pope.  Spence's  Anec- 
dotes. 


160 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


ing,  without  which  the  painters  of  those  days 
scarcely  ever  portrayed  wits),  and  he  laughs 
at  you  over  his  shoulder  with  an  honest  boy- 
ish glee  — an  artless  sweet  humor.  lie  was 
so  kind,  so  gentle,  so  jocular,  so  delightfully 
brisk  at  times,  so  dismally  wobegone  at  others, 
such  a natural  good  creature,  that  the  Giants 
loved  him.  The  great  Swift  was  gentle  and 
sportive  with  him,*  as  the  enormous  Brobding- 
nag  maids  of  honor  were  with  little  Gulliver. 
He  could  frisk  and  fondle  round  Pope,f  and 
sport,  and  bark,  and  caper,  without  offending 
the  most  thin-skinned  of  poets  and  men  ; and 
when  he  wras  jilted  in  that  little  Court  affair 
of  which  we  have  spoken,  his  warm-hearted 
patrons  the  Duke  and  Dutchess  of  Queens- 
berry  \ (the  “ Kitty,  beautiful  and  young/’  of 
Prior),  pleaded  his  cause  with  indignation, 


* “ Mr.  Gay  is,  in  all  regards,  as  honest  and  sincere  a man 
as  ever  I knew.”  — Swift,  To  Lady  Betty  Germaine , Jan., 
1733. 

f “ Of  manners  gentle,  of  affections  mild; 

In  wit  a man  ; simplicity,  a child  ; 

With  native  humor  temp’ring  virtuous  rage, 

Form’d  to  delight  at  once  and  lash  the  age; 

Above  temptation  in  a low  estate, 

And  uncorrupted  e’en  among  the  great : 

A safe  companion,  and  an  easy  friend, 

TJnblamed  through  life,  lamented  in  thy  end. 

These  are  my  honors ; not  that  here  thy  bust 
Is  mixed  with  heroes,  or  with  kings  thy  dust; 

But  that  the  worthy  and  the  good  shall  say, 

Striking  their  pensive  bosoms,  ‘ Here  lies  Gay.’  ” 

Pope’s  Epitaph  on  Gay. 

“ A hare  who,  in  a civil  way, 

Complied  with  everything,  like  Gay.” 

Fables , “ The  Hare  and  many  Friends .” 
I “ I can  give  you  no  account  of  Gay,”  says  Pope,  curiously, 
since  he  was  raffled  for,  and  won  back  by  his  Duchess.”  — 
VLorkSy  Roscoe’s  Ed .,  vol.  ix.  p.  392. 

Here  is  the  letter  Pope  wrote  to  him  when  the  death  of 


PRIOR , a AY : .4JVZ)  POP#. 


161 


and  quitted  the  Court  in  a lmff,  carrying  off 
with  them  into  their  retirement  their  kind  gen- 
tle protege.  With  these  kind  lordly  folks,  a 
real  Duke  and  Duchess,  as  delightful  as  those 


Queen  Anne  brought  back  Lord  Clarendon  from  Hanover,  and 
lost  him  the  Secretaryship  of  that  nobleman,  of  which  he  had 
but  a short  tenure. 

Gay’s  Court  prospects  were  never  happy  from  this  time. 
His  dedication  of  the  “ Shepherd’s  Week  ” to  Bolingbroke, 
Swift  used  to  call  the  “ original  sin  ” which  had  hurt  him  with 
the  house  of  Hanover  : — 

“ Sept.  23, 1714. 

“ Dear  Mr.  Gay,  — Welcome  to  your  native  soil!  welcome 
to  your  friends!  thrice  welcome  to  me!  whether  returned  in 
glory,  blest  with  court  interest,  the  love  and  familiarity  of  the 
great,  and  filled  with  agreeable  hopes;  or  melancholy  with  de- 
jection, contemplative  of  the  changes  of  fortune,  and  doubtful 
for  the  future;  whether  returned  a triumphant  Whig  or  a 
desponding  Tory,  equally  all  hail ! equally  beloved  and  welcome 
to  me ! If  happy,  I am  to  partake  in  your  elevation  ; if  unhappy, 
you  have  still  a warm  corner  in  my  heart,  and  a retreat  at  Bin- 
field  in  the  worst  of  times  at  your  service.  If  you  are  a Tory, 
or  thought  so  by  any  man,  I know  it  can  proceed  from  nothing 
but  your  gratitude  to  a few  people  who  endeavored  to  serve 
you,  and  whose  politics  were  never  your  concern.  If  you  are  a 
Whig,  as  I rather  hope,  and  as  I think  your  principles  and  mine 
(as  brother  poets)  had  ever  a bias  to  the  side  of  liberty,  I know 
you  will  be  an  honest  man  and  an  inoffensive  one.  Upon  the 
whole,  I know  you  are  incapable  of  being  so  much  of  either 
party  as  to  be  good  for  nothing.  Therefore,  once  more,  what- 
ever you  are  or  in  whatever  state  you  are,  all  hail ! 

“ One  or  two  of  your  own  friends  complained  they  had 
heard  nothing  from  you  since  the  Queen’s  death;  I told  them 
no  man  living  loved  Mr.  Gay  better  than  I,  yet  I had  not  once 
written  to  him  in  all  his  voyage.  This  I thought  a convincing 

Eroof  how  truly  one  may  be  a friend  to  another  without  telling 
im  so  every  month.  But  they  had  reasons,  too,  themselves  to 
allege  in  your  excuse,  as  men  who  really  value  one  another 
will  never  want  such  as  make  their  friends  and  themselves 
easy.  The  late  universal  concern  in  public  affairs  threw  us  all 
into  a hurry  of  spirits : even  I,  who  am  more  a philosopher 
than  to  expect  anything  from  any  reign,  was  borne  away  with 
the  current,  and  full  of  the  expectation  of  the  successor.  Dur- 
ing your  journeys,  I knew  not  wThither  to  aim  a letter  after  you ; 
that  was  a sort  of  shooting  flying:  add  to  this  the  demand 
Homer  had  upon  me,  to  write  fifty  verses  a day,  besides  learned 
notes,  all  wrhich  are  at  a conclusion  for  this  year.  Rejoice  with 
me,  O my  friend ! that  my  labor  is  over;  come  and  make  merry 
with  me  in  much  feasting.  We  will  feed  among  the  lilies  (by 
the  lilies  I mean  the  ladies).  Are  not  the  Rosalindas  of  Britain 
as  charming  as  the  Blousalindas  of  the  Hague?  or  have  the  two 

11 


162 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


who  harbored  Don  Quixote,  and  loved  that 
dear  old  Sancho,  Gay  lived,  and  was  lapped 
in  cotton,  and  had  his  plate  of  chicken,  and 
his  saucer  of  cream,  and  frisked,  and  barked, 
and  wheezed,  and  grew  fat,  and  so  ended.'* * 
He  became  very  melancholy  and  lazy,  sadly 
plethoric,  and  only  occasionally  diverting  in 
his  latter  days.  But  everybody  loved  him, 
and  the  remembrance  of  his  pretty  little  tricks  ; 
and  the  raging  old  Dean  of  St.  Patrick’s,  chaf- 
ing in  his  banishment,  was  afraid  to  open  the 
letter  which  Pope  wrote  him  announcing  the 
sad  news  of  the  death  of  Gay.j 

great  Pastoral  poets  of  our  nation  renounced  love  at  the  same 
time?  for  Philips,  immortal  Philips,  hath  deserted,  yea,  and 
in  a rustic  manner  kicked  his  Rosalind.  Dr.  Parnell  and  I have 
been  inseparable  ever  since  you  went.  We  are  now  at  the 
Bath,  where  (if  you  are  not,  as  I heartily  hope,  better  engaged) 
your  coming  would  be  the  greatest  pleasure  to  us  in  the  world. 
Talk  not  of  expenses  : Homer  shall  support  his  children.  I beg 
a line  from  you,  directed  to  the  Post-house  in  Bath.  Poor  Par- 
nell is  in  an  ill  state  of  health. 

“ Pardon  me  if  I add  a word  of  advice  in  the  poetical  way. 
Write  something  on  the  King,  or  Prince,  or  Princess.  On  what- 
soever foot  you  may  be  with  the  court,  this  can  do  no  harm.  I 
shall  never  know  where  to  end,  and  am  confounded  in  the  many 
things  I have  to  say  to  you,  though  they  all  amount  but  to  this, 
that  I am,  entirely,  as  ever,  “ Your,”  etc. 

Gay  took  the  advice  “ in  the  poetical  way,”  and  published 
“ An  Epistle  to  a Lady,  occasioned  by  the  arrival  of  her  Royal 
Highness  the  Princess  of  Wales.”  But  though  this  brought 
him  access  to  Court,  and  the  attendance  of  the  Prince  and 
Princess  at  his  farce  of  the  “What  d’ye  call  it?  ” it  did  not 
bring  him  a place.  On  the  accession  of  George  II.,  he  was 
offered  the  situation  of  Gentleman  Usher  to  the  Princess  Louisa 
(her  Highness  being  then  two  years  old) ; but  “ by  this  offer,” 
says  Johnson,  “ he  thought  himself  insulted.” 

* “ Gay  was  a great  eater.  — As  the  French  philosopher 
used  to  prove  his  existence  by  Cogito,  ergo  sum , the  greatest 
proof  of  Gay’s  existence  is,  Edit,  ergo  est.”  — Conoreve,  in  a 
Letter  to  Pope.  Spence’s  Anecdotes. 

f Swift  endorsed  the  letter:  “ On  my  dear  friend  Mr.  Gay’s 
death;  received  Dec.  15,  but  not  read  till  the  20th,  by  an  im- 
pulse foreboding  some  misfortune.” 

“ It  was  by  Swift’s  interest  that  Gay  was  made  known  to 


PRIOR,  GAY,  AND  POPE. 


163 


Swift’s  letters  to  him  are  beautiful ; and 
having  no  purpose  but  kindness  in  writing  to 
him,  no  party  aim  to  advocate,  or  slight  or 
anger  to  wreak,  every  word  the  Dean  says  to 
his  favorite  is  natural,  trustworthy,  and  kindly. 
His  admiration  for  Gay’s  parts  and  honesty, 
and  his  laughter  at  his  weaknesses,  were  alike 
just  and  genuine.  He  paints  his  character  in 
wonderful  pleasant  traits'  of  jocular  satire. 
44  I writ  lately  to  Mr.  Pope,”  Swift  says,  writ- 
ing to  Gay  : 4 4 I wish  you  had  a little  villakin 
in  his  neighborhood  ; but  you  are  yet  too  vol- 
atile, and  any  lady  with  a coach  and  six 
horses  would  carry  you  to  Japan.”  44  If  your 
ramble,”  says  Swift,  in  another  letter,  44  was 
on  horseback,  I am  glad  of  it,  on  account 
of  your  health  ; but  I know  your  arts  of  patch- 
ing up  a journey  between  stage-coaches  and 
friends’  coaches — for  you  are  as  arrant  a 
cockney  as  any  hosier  in  Cheapside.  I have 
often  had  it  in  my  head  to  put  it  into  yours, 
that  you  ought  to  have  some  great  work  in 
scheme,  which  may  take  up  seven  years  to  fin- 
ish, besides  two  or  three  under-ones  that  may 


Lord  Bolingbroke,  and  obtained  his  patronage.”  — Scott’s 
Swift,  vol.  i.  p.  156. 

Pope  wrote  on  the  occasion  of  Gay’s  death,  to  Swift,  thus  : — 

[Dec.  5,  1732.] 

“ . . . One  of  the  nearest  and  longest  ties  I have  ever  had 
is  broken  all  on  a sudden  by  the  unexpected  death  of  poor  Mr. 
Gay.  An  inflammatory  fever  hurried  him  out  of  this  life  in 
three  days.  . . . He  asked  of  you  a few  hours  before  when  in 
acute  torment  by  the  inflammation  in  his  bowels  and  breast.  . . . 
II is  sisters,  we  suppose,  will  be  his  heirs,  who  are  two  widows. 
. . . Good  God!  how  often  are  we  to  die  before  we  go  quite 
off  this  stage?  In  every  friend  we  lose  a part  of  ourselves,  and 
the  best  part.  God  keep  those  we  have  left ! few  are  worth 
praying  for,  and  one’s  self  the  least  of  all.” 


164 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


add  another  thousand  pounds  to  your  stock. 
And  then  I shall  be  in  less  pain  about  you.  I 
know  you  can  find  dinners,  but  you  love 
twelvepenny  coaches  too  well,  without  con- 
sidering that  the  interest  of  a whole  thousand 
pounds  brings  you  but  half  a crown  a day.” 
And  then  Swift  goes  off'  from  Gay  to  pay 
some  grand  compliments  to  her  Grace  the 
Duchess  of  Queensberry,  in  whose  sunshine 
Mr.  Gay  was  basking,  and  in  whose  radiance 
the  Dean  would  have  liked  to  warm  himself 
too. 

But  we  have  Gay  here  before  us,  in  these 
letters  — lazy,  kindly,  uncommonly  idle  ; rather 
slovenly,  I ’m  afraid  ; forever  eating  and  say- 
ing good  things ; a little  round  French  abbe 
of  a man,  sleek,  soft-handed,  and  soft-hearted. 

Our  object  in  these  lectures  is  rather  to 
describe  the  men  than  their  works  ; or  to  deal 
with  the  latter  only  in  as  far  as  they  seem  to 
illustrate  the  character  of  their  writers.  Mr. 
Gay’s  44  Fables,”  which  were  written  to  benefit 
that  amiable  Prince,  the  Duke  of  Cumberland, 
the  warrior  of  Dettingen  and  Culloden,  I have 
not,  I own,  been  able  to  peruse  since  a period 
of  very  early  youth  ; and  it  must  be  confessed 
that  they  did  not  effect  much  benefit  upon  the 
illustrious  young  Prince,  whose  manners  they 
were  intended  to  modify,  and  whose  natural 
ferocity  our  gentle-hearted  satirist  perhaps 
proposed  to  restrain.  But  the  six  pastorals 
called  the  44  Shepherd’s  Week,”  and  the  bur- 
lesque poem  of  44  Trivia,”  any  man  fond  of 
lazy  literature  will  find  delightful  at  the  pres- 


PBIOB,  GAY,  AND  POPE. 


165 


ent  day,  and  must  read  from  beginning  to  end 
with  pleasure.  They  are  to  poetry  what 
charming  little  Dresden  china  figures  are  to 
sculpture : graceful,  minikin,  fantastic  ; with 
a certain  beauty  alwa}Ts  accompanying  them. 
The  pretty  little  personages  of  the  pastoral, 
with  gold  clocks  to  their  stockings,  and  fresh 
satin  ribbons  to  their  crooks  and  waistcoats 
and  bodices,  dance  their  loves  to  a minuet- 
tune  played  on  a bird-organ,  approach  the 
charmer,  or  rush  from  the  false  one  daintily 
on  their  red-heeled  tiptoes,  and  die  of  despair 
or  rapture,  with  the  most  pathetic  little  grins 
and  ogles  ; or  repose,  simpering  at  each  other, 
under  an  arbor  of  pea  green  crockery  ; or 
piping  to  pretty  flocks  that  have  just  been 
washed  with  the  best  Naples  in  a stream  of 
Bergamot.  Gay’s  gay  plan  seems  to  me  far 
pleasanter  than  that  of  Phillips  — his  rival  and 
Pope’s  — a serious  and  dreary  idyllic  cockney  ; 
not  that  Gay’s  u Bumkinets  ” and  66  Hobne- 
lias  ” are  a whit  more  natural  than  the  would- 
be  serious  characters  of  the  other  posture -mas- 
ter ; but  the  quality  of  this  true  humorist  was 
to  laugh  and  make  laugh,  though  always  with 
a secret  kindness  and  tenderness,  to  perform 
the  drollest  little  antics  and  capers,  but  always 
with  a certain  grace,  and  to  sweet  music  — as 
you  may  have  seen  a Savoyard  boy  abroad, 
with  a hurdy-gurdy  and  a monkey,  turning 
over  head  and  heels,  or  clattering  and  pirouet- 
ting in  a pair  of  wooden  shoes,  yet  always 
with  a look  of  love  and  appeal  in  his  bright 
eyes,  and  a smile  that  asks  and  wins  affection 


166  ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 

and  protection.  Happy  they  who  have  that 
sweet  gift  of  nature  ! It  was  this  which  made 
the  great  folks  and  Court  ladies  free  and 
friendly  with  John  Gay  — which  made  Pope 
and  Arbuthnot  love  him  — which  melted  the 
savage  heart  of  Swift  when  he  thought  of 
him — and  drove  away,  for  a moment  or  two,  | 
the  dark  frenzies  which  obscured  the  lonely 
tyrant’s  brain,  as  he  heard  Gay’s  voice  with  j 
its  simple  melody  and  artless  ringing  laugh- 
ter. 

What  used  to  be  said  about  Rubini,  qu'il 
avait  des  larmes  dans  la , voix , may  be  said  of 
Gay,*  and  of  one  other  humorist  of  whom  we 
shall  have  to  speak.  In  almost  every  ballad 
of  his,  however  slight, f in  the  “ Beggar’s 


*“  Gay,  like  Goldsmith,  had  a musical  talent.  ‘He  could 
play  on  the  flute,’  says  Malone,  ‘ and  was,  therefore,  enabled  to 
adapt  so  happily  some  of  the  airs  in  the  “ Beggar’s  Opera.”  * ” 
— Notes  to  Spence. 

f “ ’T  was  when  the  seas  were  roaring 
With  hollow  blasts  of  wind, 

A damsel  lay  deploring 
All  on  a rock  reclined. 

Wide  o’er  the  foaming  billows 
She  cast  a wistful  look  ; 

Tier  head  was  crown’d  with  willows 
That  trembled  o’er  the  brook. 

“ ‘ Twelve  months  are  gone  and  over, 

And  nine  long  tedious  days; 

Why  didst  thou,  venturous  lover  — 

Why  didst  thou  trust  the  seas? 

Cease,  cease,  thou  cruel  Ocean, 

And  let  my  lover  rest ; 

Ah ! what ’s  thy  troubled  motion 
To  that  within  my  breast? 

M * The  merchant,  robb’d  of  pleasure, 

Sees  tempests  in  despair; 

But  what ’s  the  loss  of  treasure 
To  losing  of  my  dear? 


PRIOR,  GAY,  AND  POPE. 


167 


Opera  ” * and  in  its  wearisome  continuation 
(where  the  verses  are  to  the  full  as  pretty  as 

Should  you  some  coast  be  laid  on, 

Where  gold  and  diamonds  grow , 

You  ’d  lind  a richer  maiden, 

But  none  that  loves  you  so. 

“ * How  can  they  say  that  Nature 
Has  nothing  made  in  vain ; 

Why,  then,  beneath  the  water 
Should  hideous  rocks  remain? 

No  eyes  the  rocks  discover 
That  lurk  beneath  the  deep, 

To  wreck  the  wandering  lover, 

And  leave  the  maid  to  weep  ? * 

“ All  melancholy  lying, 

Thus  wailed  she  for  her  dear; 

Repay’d  each  blast  with  sighing, 

Each  billow  with  a tear; 

When  o’er  the  white  wave  stooping, 

His  floating  corpse  she  spy’d ; 

Then  like  a lily  drooping, 

She  bow’d  her  head  and  died.” 

A ballad  from  the  “ What  d * ye  call  it  7 ” 

“ What  can  be  prettier  than  Gay’s  ballad,  or,  rather,  Swift’s, 
Arbuthnot’s,  Pope’s,  and  Gay?s,  in  the ‘What  d’ye  call  it?’ 
‘ ’T  was  when  the  seas  were  roaring’?  I have  been  well  in- 
formed that  they  all  contributed.”  — Cowper  to  Unwin , 1783. 

* “ Dr.  Swift  had  been  observing  once  to  Mr.  Gay,  what  an 
odd  pretty  sort  of  thing  a Newgate  Pastoral  might  make.  Gay 
was  inclined  to  try  at  such  a thing  for  some  time,  but  after- 
wards thought  it  would  be  better  to  write  a comedy  on  the  same 
plan.  This  was  what  gave  rise  to  the  ‘ Beggar’s  Opera.*  He 
began  on  it,  and  when  he  first  mentioned  it  to  Swift,  the  Doctor 
did  not  much  like  the  project.  As  he  carried  it  on,  he  showed 
what  he  wrote  to  both  of  us;  and  we  now  and  then  gave  a cor- 
rection, or  a word  or  two  of  advice;  but  it  was  wholly  of  his 
own  writing.  When  it  was  done,  neither  of  us  thought  it  would 
succeed.  We  showed  it  to  Congreve,  who,  after  reading  it 
over,  said,  ‘ It  would  either  take  greatly  or  be  damned  con- 
foundedly.’ We  were  all  the  first  night  of  it,  in  great  uncer- 
tainty of  the  event,  till  we  were  very  much  encouraged  by 
overhearing  the  Duke  of  Argyle,  who  sat  in  the  next  box  to  us, 
say,  * It  will  do  — it  must  do  ! — I can  see  it  in  the  eyes  of  them ! ’ 
This  was  a good  while  before  the  first  act  was  over,  and  so 
gave  us  ease  soon;  for  the  Duke  [besides  his  own  good  taste] 
has  a more  particular  knack  than  any  one  now  living  in  discov- 
ering the  taste  of  the  public.  He  was  quite  right  in  this  as 
usual;  the  good-nature  of  the  audience  appeared  stronger  and 
stronger  every  act,  and  epded  in  a clamor  of  applause.”  — Pope. 
Spence* s Anecdotes , 


168 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS . 


in  the  first  piece,  however) , there  is  a peculiar, 
hinted,  pathetic  sweetness  and  melody.  It 
charms  and  melts  you.  It’s  indefinable,  but 
it  exists ; and  is  the  property  of  John  Gay’s 
and  Oliver  Goldsmith’s  best  verse,  as  fragrance 
is  of  a violet,  or  freshness  of  a rose. 

Let  me  read  a piece  from  one  of  his  letters, 
which  is  so  famous  that  most  people  here  are 
no  doubt  familiar  with  it,  but  so  delightful 
that  it  is  always  pleasant  to  hear : — 

“ I have  just  passed  part  of  this  summer  at  an  old 
romantic  seat  of  my  Lord  Harcourt’s  which  he  lent  me. 
It  overlooks  a common  field,  where,  under  the  shade  of 
a haycock,  sat  two  lovers  — as  constant  as  ever  were 
found  in  romance  — beneath  a spreading  beech.  The 
name  of  the  one  (let  it  sound  as  it  will)  was  J ohn  Hewet ; 
of  the  other  Sarah  Drew.  John  was  a well-set  man, 
about  five-and-twenty ; Sarah  a brown  woman  of  eigh- 
teen. John  had  for  several  months  borne  the  labor  of 
the  day  in  the  same  field  with  Sarah  ; when  she  milked, 
it  was  his  morning  and  evening- charge  to  bring  the 
cows  to  her  pail.  Their  love  was  the  talk,  but  not  the 
scandal,  of  the  whole  neighborhood,  for  all  they  aimed 
at  was  the  blameless  possession  of  each  other  in  mar- 
riage. It  was  but  this  very  morning  that  he  had  obtained 
her  parents’  consent,  and  it  was  but  till  the  next  week 
that  they  were  to  wait  to  be  happy.  Perhaps  this  very 
day,  in  the  intervals  of  their  work,  they  were  talking  of 
their  wedding-clothes ; and  John  was  now  matching 
several  kinds  of  poppies  and  field-dowers  to  her  com- 
plexion, to  make  her  a present  of  knots  for  the  day. 
While  they  were  thus  employed  (it  was  on  the  last  of 
July),  a terrible  storm  of  thunder  and  lightning  arose, 
that  drove  the  laborers  to  what  shelter  the  trees  or 
hedges  afforded.  Sarah,  frightened  and  out  of  breath, 
sunk  on  a haycock;  and  John  (who  never  separated 
from  her)  sat  by  her  side,  having  raked  two  or  three 
heaps  together,  to  secure  her.  Immediately  there  was 
heard  so  loud  a crack,  as  if  heaven  had  burst  asunder. 
The  laborers,  all  solicitous  for  each  other’s  safety,  called 
to  one  another : those  that  were  nearest  our  lovers,  hear- 
ing no  answer,  stepped  to  the  place  where  they  lay: 
they  first  saw  a little  smoke,  and  after,  this  faithful 


PPIOB,  GAY , AND  POPE . 


169 


pstii  — John,  with  one  arm  about  his  Sarah’s  neck,  and 
the  other  held  over  her  face,  as  if  to  screen  her  from 
the  lightning.  They  were  struck  dead,  and  already 
grown  stiff  and  cold  in  this  tender  posture.  There  was 
no  mark  or  discoloring  on  their  bodies  — only  that 
Sarah’s  eyebrow  was  a little  singed,  and  a small  spot 
between  her  breasts.  They  were  buried  the  next  day 
in  one  grave.” 

And  the  proof  that  this  description  is  de- 
lightful and  beautiful  is,  that  the  great  Mr. 
Pope  admired  it  so  much  that  he  thought 
proper  to  steal  it  and  to  send  it  off  to  a cer- 
tain lady  and  wit,  with  whom  he  pretended 
to  be  in  love  in  those  days  — my  Lord  Duke 
of  Kingston’s  daughter,  and  married  to  Mr. 
Wortley  Montagu,  then  his  Majesty’s  Ambas- 
sador at  Constantinople. 

We  are  now  come  to  the  greatest  name  on 
our  list  — the  highest  among  the  poets,  the 
highest  among  the  English  wits  and  humor- 
ists with  whom  we  have  to  rank  him.  If  the 
author  of  the  uDunciad”  be  not  a humorist, 
if  the  poet  of  the  u Rape  of  the  Lock  ” be  not 
a wit,  who  deserves  to  be  called  so?  Besides 
that  brilliant  genius  and  immense  fame,  for 
both  of  which  we  should  respect  him,  men  of 
letters  should  admire  him  as  being  the  greatest 
literary  artist  that  England  has  seen.  He  pol- 
ished, he  refined,  he  thought ; he  took  thoughts 
from  other  works  to  adorn  and  complete  his 
own  ; borrowing  an  idea  or  a cadence  from 
another  poet  as  he  would  a figure  or  a simile 
from  a flower,  or  a river,  stream,  or  any  object 
which  struck  him  in  his  walk,  or  contemplation 
of  Nature.  He  began  to  imitate  at  an  early 


170 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


• 

age  ; * and  taught  himself  to  write  by  copy* 
ing  printed  books.  Then  he  passed  into  the 
hands  of  the  priests,  and  from  his  first  clerical 
master,  who  came  to  him  when  he  was  eight 
years  old,  he  went  to  a school  at  Twyford, 
and  another  school  at  Hyde  Park,  at  which 
places  he  unlearned  all  that  he  had  got  from 
his  first  instructor.  At  twelve  years  old,  he 
went  with  his  father  into  Windsor  Forest,  and 
there  learned  for  a few  months  under  a fourth 
priest.  44  And  this  was  all  the  teaching  I ever 
had,”  he  said,  44  and  God  knows  it  extended 
a very  little  way.”. 

When  he  had  done  with  his  priests  he  took 


* “ Waller,  Spenser,  and  Dryden  were  Mr.  Pope’s  great 
favorites,  in  the  order  they  are  named,  in  his  first  reading, 
till  he  was  about  twelve  years  old.”  — Pope.  Spence's  Anec- 
dotes. 

“ Mr.  Pope’s  father  (who  was  an  honest  merchant,  and  dealt 
in  Hollands,  wholesale)  was  no  poet,  but  he  used  to  set  him  to 
make  English  verses  when  very  young.  He  was  pretty  difficult 
in  being  pleased;  and  often  used  to  send  him  back  to  new  turn 
them.  ‘ These  are  not  good  rhimes’ ; for  that  was  my  husband’s 
word  for  verses.”  — Pope’s  Mother.  Spence. 

“ I wrote  things,  I ’m  ashamed  to  say  how  soon.  Part  of  an 
Epic  Poem  when  about  twelve.  The  scene  of  it  lay  at  Rhodes 
and  some  of  the  neighboring  islands ; and  the  poem  opened  un- 
der water  with  a description  of  the  Court  of  Neptune.”  — Pope. 
Ibid. 

“His  perpetual  application  (after  he  set  to  study  of  himself) 
reduced  him  in  four  years’  time  to  so  bad  a state  of  health,  that, 
after  trying  physicians  for  a good  while  in  vain,  he  resolved  to 
give  way  to  his  distemper;  and  sat  down  calmly  in  a full  ex- 
pectation of  death  in  a short  time.  Under  this  thought,  he 
wrote  letters  to  take  a last  farewell  of  some  of  his  more  partic- 
ular friends,  and,  among  the  rest,  one  to  the  Abbe  Southcote. 
The  Abbe  was  extremely  concerned,  both  for  his  very  ill  state 
of  health  and  the  resolution  he  said  he  h;id  taken.  He  thought 
there  might  yet  be  hope,  and  went  immediately  to  Dr.  Radcliffe, 
with  whom  he  was  well  acquainted,  told  him  Mr.  Pope’s  case, 
got  full  directions  from  him,  and  carried  them  down  to  Pope  in 
Windsor  Forest.  The  chief  thing  the  Doctor  ordered  him  was 
to  apply  less,  and  to  ride  every  day.  The  following  his  advice 
soon  restored  hint  to  his  health.”*—  Pope.  Spence . 


PRIOR,  GAY,  A YD  POPE . 


171 


to  reading  by  himself,  for  which  he  had  a very 
great  eagerness  and  enthusiasm,  especially  for 
poetry.  He  learnt  versification  from  Dryden, 
he  said.  In  his  youthful  poem  of  44  Alcander,” 
he  imitated  every  poet,  Cowley,  Milton,  Spen- 
ser, Statius,  Homer,  Virgil.  In  a few  years 
he  had  dipped  into  a great  number  of  the  Eng- 
lish, French,  Italian,  Latin,  and  Greek  poets. 
44  This  I did,”  he  says,  44  without  any  design, 
except  to  amuse  myself ; and  got  the  lan- 
guages by  hunting  after  the  stories  in  the 
several  poets  I read,  rather  than  read  the 
books  to  get  the  languages.  I followed  every- 
where as  my  fancy  led  me,  and  was  like  a boy 
gathering  flowers  in  the  fields  and  woods,  just 
as  they  fell  in  his  way.  These  five  or  six 
years  I looked  upon  as  the  happiest  in  my 
life.”  Is  not  here  a beautiful  holiday  picture  ? 
The  forest  and  the  fairy  story-book — the  boy 
spelling  Ariosto  or  Virgil  under  the  trees,  bat- 
tling with  the  Cid  for  the  love  of  Chimene,  or 
dreaming  of  Armida’s  garden  — peace  and 
sunshine  round  about — the  kindest  love  and 
tenderness  waiting  for  him  at  his  quiet  home 
yonder  — and  Genius  throbbing  in  his  young 
heart,  and  whispering  to  him,  44  You  shall  be 
great,  you  shall  be  famous  ; you  too  shall  love 
and  sing  ; you  will  sing  her  so  nobly  that  some 
kind  heart  shall  forget  you  are  weak  and  ill- 
formed.  Every  poet  had  a love.  Fate  must 
give  one  to  you  too,”  — and  day  by  day  he 
walks  the  forest,  very  likely  looking  out  for 
that  charmer.  44  They  were  the  happiest  days 
of  his  life,”  he  says,  when  he  was  only  dream- 


172 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


ing  of  bis  fame  ; when  he  had  gained  that  mis- 
tress she  was  no  consoler. 

That  charmer  made  her  appearance,  it  would 
seem,  about  the  year  1705,  when  Pope  was 
seventeen.  Letters  of  his  are  extant,  ad- 
dressed to  a certain  Lady  M , whom  the 

youth  courted,  and  to  whom  he  expressed  his 
ardor  in  language,  to  say  no  worse  of  it,  that 
is  entirely  pert,  odious,  and  affected.  He  imi- 
tated love-compositions  as  he  had  been  imitat- 
ing love-poems  just  before  — it  was  a sham 
mistress  he  courted,  and  a sham  passion,  ex- 
pressed as  became  it.  These  unlucky  letters 
found  their  way  into  print  years  afterwards, 
and  were  sold  to  the  congenial  Mr.  Curll.  If 
any  of  my  hearers,  as  I hope  they  may,  should 
take  a fancy  to  look  at  Pope’s  correspondence, 
let  them  pass  over  that  first  part  of  it ; over, 
perhaps,  almost  all  Pope’s  letters  to  women  ; 
in  which  there  is  a tone  of  not  pleasant  gal- 
lantry, and,  amidst  a profusion  of  compliments 
and  politenesses,  a something  which  makes  one 
distrust  the  little  pert,  prurient  bard.  There 
is  very  little  indeed  to  say  about  his  loves,  and 
that  little  not  edifying.  He  wrote  flames  and 
raptures  and  elaborate  verse  and  prose  for 
Lady  Marv  Wortley  Montagu  ; but  that  pas- 
sion probably  came  to  a climax  in  an  imperti- 
nence and  was  extinguished  by  a box  on  the 
ear,  or  some  such  rebuff,  and  he  began  on  a 
sudden  to  hate  her  with  a fervor  much  more 
genuine  than  that  of  his  love  had  been.  It 
was  a feeble  puny  grimace  of  love,  and  pal- 
tering with  passion.  After  Mr.  Pcpe  had 


PBIOJR , GAY,  AND  POPE. 


173 


sent  off  one  of  his  fine  compositions  to  Lady 
Mary,  he  made  a second  draft  from  the  rough 
copy,  and  favored  some  other  friend  with  it. 
He  was  so  charmed  with  the  letter  of  Gay’s 
that  I have  just  quoted,  that  he  had  copied 
that  and  amended  it,  and  sent  it  to  Lady  Mary 
as  his  own.  A gentleman  who  writes  letters 
d deux  Jins , and  after  having  poured  out  his 
heart  to  the  beloved,  serves  up  the  same  dish 
rechauffe  to  a friend,  is  not  very  much  in  ear- 
nest about  his  loves,  however  much  he  may  be 
in  his  piques  and  vanities  when  his  imperti- 
nence gets  its  due. 

But,  save  that  unlucky  part  of  the  “ Pope 
Correspondence,”  I do  not  know,  in  the  range 
of  our  literature,  volumes  more  delightful.* ** 


* “Mr.  Pope  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  Broom,  Fulham,  Norfolk. 

“ Aug.  29th,  1730. 

**  Dear  Sir , — I intended  to  write  to  you  on  this  melancholy 
subject,  the  death  of  Mr.  Fenton,  before  yours  came,  but  stayed 
to  have  informed  myself  and  you  of  the  circumstances  of  it. 
All  I hear  is,  that  he  felt  a gradual  decay,  though  so  early  in 
life,  and  was  declining  for  five  or  six  months.  It  was  not,  as  I 
apprehended,  the  gout  in  his  stomach,  but,  I believe,  rather  a 
complication  first  of  gross  humors,  as  he  was  naturally  corpu- 
lent, not  discharging  themselves,  as  he  used  no  sort  of  exercise. 
No  man  better  bore  the  approaches  of  his  dissolution  (as  I am 
told),  or  with  less  ostentation  yielded  up  his  being.  The  great 
modesty  which  you  know  was  natural  to  him,  and  the  great 
contempt  he  had  for  all  sorts  of  vanity  and  parade,  never  ap- 
peared more  than  in  his  last  moments  : he  had  a conscious  satis- 
faction (no  doubt)  in  acting  right,  in  feeling  himself  honest, 
true,  and  unpretending  to  more  than  his  own.  So  he  died  as  he 
lived,  with  that  secret,  yet  sufficient  contentment. 

“ As  to  any  papers  left  behind  him,  I dare  say  they  can  be 
but  few ; for  this  reason  he  never  wrote  out  of  vanity,  or  thought 
much  of  the  applause  of  men.  I know  an  instance  when  he  did 
his  utmost  to  conceal  his  own  merit  that  way;  and  if  we  join 
to  this  his  natural  love  of  ease,  I fancy  we  must  expect  little  of 
this  sort : at  least,  I have  heard  of  none,  except  some  few  fur- 
ther remarks  on  Waller  (which  his  cautious  integrity  made  him 
leave  an  order  to  be  given  to  Mr.  Tonson),  ana  perhaps,  though 


174 


ENGLISH  HUMOBISTS. 


You  live  in  them  in  the  finest  company  in  the 
world.  A little  stately,  perhaps ; a little  ap- 
prete  and  conscious  that  they  are  speaking  to 


it  is  many  years  Bince  I Raw  it,  a translation  of  the  first  book  of 
‘ Oppian.’  lie  had  begun  a tragedy  of  ‘ Dion,’  but  made  small 
progress  in  it. 

“ As  to  his  other  affairs,  he  died  poor  but  honest,  leaving  no 
debts  or  legacies,  except  of  a few  pounds  to  Mr.  Trumbull  and 
my  lady,  in  token  of  respect,  gratefulness,  and  mutual  esteem. 

“I  shall  with  pleasure  take  upon  me  to  draw  this  amiable, 
quiet,  deserving,  unpretending,  Christian,  and  philosophical 
character  in  his  epitaph.  There  truth  may  be  spoken  in  a few 
words;  as  for  flourish,  and  oratory,  and  poetry,  I leave  them 
to  younger  and  more  lively  writers,  such  as  love  writing  for 
writing’s  sake,  and  would  rather  show  their  own  fine  parts  than 
report  the  valuable  ones  of  any  other  man.  So  the  elegy  I 
renounce. 

“ I condole  with  you  from  my  heart  on  the  loss  of  so  worthy 
a man,  and  a friend  to  us  both.  . . . 

“ Adieu  ; let  us  love  his  memory  and  profit  by  his  example. 
Am  very  sincerely,  dear  sir, 

“ Your  affectionate  and  real  servant.” 

“To  the  Earl  of  Burlington. 

“ August,  1714. 

“ J/y  Lord,  — If  your  mare  could  speak,  she  would  give 
you  an  account  of  what  extraordinary  company  she  had  on  the 
road,  which,  since  she  cannot  do,  I will. 

“ It  was  the  enterprising  Mr.  Lintot,  the  redoubtable  rival 
of  Mr.  Tonson,  wTho,  mounted  on  a stone-horse,  overtook  me  in 
Windsor  Forest.  He  said  he  heard  I designed  for  Oxford,  the 
seat  of  the  Muses,  and  would,  as  my  bookseller,  by  all  means 
accompany  me  thither. 

“ I asked  him  where  he  got  his  horse.  He  answered  he  got 
it  of  his  publisher;  ‘ for  that  rogue,  my  printer,’  said  he,  ‘ dis'- 
appointed  me.  I hoped  to  put  him  in  good  humor  by  a treat  at 
the  tavern  of  a brown  fricassee  of  rabbits,  which  cost  ten  shil- 
lings, with  two  quarts  of  wine,  besides  my  conversation.  I 
thought  myself  cock-sure  of  his  horse,  which  he  readily  prom- 
ised me,  but  said  that  Mr.  Tonson  had  just  such  another  design 
of  going  to  Cambridge,  expecting  there  the  copy  of  a new  kind 

of  Horace  from  Dr. ; and  if  Mr.  Tonson  went,  he  was  pre- 

engaged  to  attend  him,  being  to  have  the  printing  of  the  said 
copy.  So,  in  short,  I borrowed  this  stone-horse  of  my  pub- 
lisher, which  he  had  of  Mr.  Oldmixon,  for  a debt.  lie  lent  me, 
too,  the  pretty  boy  you  see  after  me.  He  was  a smutty  dog 
vesterday,  and  cost  me  more  than  two  hours  to  wash  the  ink  off 
his  face;  but  the  devil  is  a fair-conditioned  devil,  and  very  for- 
ward in  his  catechism.  If  you  have  any  more  bags  he  shall 
carry  them.’ 

“ I thought  Mr.  Lintot’s  civility  not  to  be  neglected,  so  gave 


.PRIOR , GAY i ^4ArZ>  POP#. 


175 


whole  generations  who  are  listening ; but  in 
the  tone  of  their  voices  — pitched,  as  no  doubt 
they  are,  beyond  the  mere  conversation  key  — 


the  boy  a small  bag  containing  three  shirts  and  an  Elzevir  Vir- 
gil, and,  mounting  in  an  instant,  proceeded  on  the  road,  with 
my  man  before,  my  courteous  stationer  beside,  and  the  aforesaid 
devil  behind. 

“Mr.  Lintot  began  in  this  manner:  ‘Now,  damn  them! 
What  if  they  should  put  it  into  the  newspaper  how  you  and  I 
went  together  to  Oxford?  What  would  I care?  If  I should  go 
down  into  Sussex  they  would  say  I was  gone  to  the  Speaker; 
but  what  of  that  ? If  my  son  were  but  big  enough  to  go  on  with 
the  business,  by  G— d,  I would  keep  as  good  company  as  old 
Jacob.’ 

“ Hereupon,  I inquired  of  his  son.  ‘ The  lad,’  says  he,  ‘ has 
fine  parts,  but  is  somewhat  sickly,  much  as  you  are.  I spare 
for  nothing  in  his  education  at  Westminster.  Pray,  don’t  you 
think  Westminster  to  be  the  best  school  in  England?  Most  of 
the  late  Ministry  came  out  of  it;  so  did  many  of  this  Ministry. 
I hope  the  boy  will  make  his  fortune.’ 

“ ‘ Don’t  you  design  to  let  him  pass  a year  at  Oxford  ! * ‘ To 

what  purpose?’  said  he.  ‘The  Universities  do  but  make 
pedants,  and  I intend  to  breed  him  a man  of  business.’ 

“ As  Mr.  Lintot  was  talking,  I observed  he  sat  uneasy  on 
his  saddle,  for  which  I expressed  some  solicitude.  ‘Nothing,’ 
says  he.  ‘I  can  bear  it  well  'enough;  but,  since  we  have  the 
day  before  us,  methinks  it  would  be  very  pleasant  for  you  to 
rest  awhile  under  the  woods.’  When  we  were  alighted,  * See, 
here,  what  a mighty  pretty  Horace  I have  in  my  pocket!  What 
if  you  amused  yourself  in  turning  an  ode  till  we  mount  again? 
Lord  ! if  you  pleased,  what  a clever  miscellany  might  you  make 
at  leisure  hours!’  ‘Perhaps  I may,’  said  I,  ‘if  we  ride  on: 
the  motion  is  an  aid  to  my  fancy;  a round  trot  very  much 
awakens  my  spirits;  then  jog  on  apace,  and  I ’ll  think  as  hard 
as  I can.’ 

“Silence  ensued  for  a full  hour;  after  which  Mr.  Lintot 
lugged  the  reins,  stopped  short,  and  broke  out,  * Well,  sir,  how 
far  have  you  gone?’  I answered,  seven  miles.  ‘Z — ds,  sir,’ 
said  Lintot,  ‘ I thought  you  had  done  seven  stanzas.  Oldis- 
worth,  in  a ramble  round  Wimbledon  Hill,  would  translate  a 
whole  ode  in  half  this  time.  I ’ll  say  that  for  Oldisworth 
[though  I lost  by  his  Timothy’s],  be  translates  an  ode  of  Horace 
the  quickest  of  any  man  in  England.  I remember  Dr.  King 
would  write  verses  in  a tavern,  three  hours  after  he  could  not 
speak  : and  there  is  Sir  Richard,  in  that  rumbling  old  chariot  of 
his,  between  Fleet  Ditch  and  St.  Giles’s  Pound,  shall  make  you 
half  a Job.’ 

“ ‘ Pray,  Mr.  Lintot,’  said  I,  ‘now  you  talk  of  translators, 
what  is  your  method  of  managing  them?’  ‘Sir,’  replied  he, 
4 these  are  the  saddest  pack  of  rogues  in  the  wTorld  : in  a hungry 
fit,  they  ’ll  swear  they  understand  all  the  languages  in  the  uni 


EXGLISH  HUM0BI8T8. 


176 


in  the  expression  of  their  thoughts,  their  vari- 
ous views  and  natures,  there  is  something 
generous,  and  cheering,  and  ennobling.  You 


verse.  I have  known  one  of  them  take  down  a Greek  book 
upon  my  counter  and  cry,  “Ah,  this  is  Hebrew,  and  must  read 
it  from  the  latter  end.”  By  G — d,  I can  never  be  sure  in  these 
fellows,  for  I neither  understand  Greek,  Latin,  French,  nor 
Italian  myself.  But  this  is  my  way  : I agree  with  them  for  ten 
shillings  per  sheet,  with  a proviso  that  I will  have  their  doings 
corrected  with  whom  I please;  so  by  one  or  the  other  they  are 
led  at  last  to  the  true  sense  of  an  author;  my  judgment  giving 
the  negative  to  all  my  translators.’  ‘Then  how  are  you  sure 
these  correctors  may  not  impose  upon  you?’  ‘Why,  I get  any 
civil  gentleman  (especially  any  Scotchman)  that  conies  into  my 
shop,  to  read  the  original  to  me  in  English;  by  this  I know 
whether  my  first  translator  be  deficient,  and  whether  my  cor- 
rector merits  his  money  or  not. 

“ ‘ I ’ll  tell  you  what  happened  to  me  last  month.  I bargained 

with  S for  a new  version  of  “ Lucretius,”  to  publish 

against  Tonson’s,  agreeing  to  pay  the  author  so  many  shillings 
at  his  producing  so  many  lines,  lie  made  a great  progress  in  a 
very  short  time,  and  I gave  it  to  the  corrector  to  compare  with 
the  Latin;  but  he  went  directly  to  Creech’s  translation,  and 
found  it  the  same,  word  for  word,  all  but  the  first  page.  Now 
what  d’  ye  think  I did?  I arrested  the  translator  for  a cheat; 
nay,  and  I stopped  the  corrector’s  pay,  too,  upon  the  proof  that 
he  had  made  use  of  Creech  instead  of  the  original.’ 

“*  Pray  tell  me  next  how  you  deal  with  the  critics.’  * Sir,’ 
said  he,  ‘ nothing  more  easy.  I can  silence  the  most  formidable 
of  them  : the  rich  ones  for  a sheet  apiece  of  the  blotted  manu- 
script, which  cost  me  nothing;  they ’ll  go  about  with  it  to  their 
acquaintance,  and  pretend  they  had  it  from  the  author,  who  sub- 
mitted it  to  their  correction  : this  has  given  some  of  them  such 
an  air,  that  in  time  they  come  to  be  consulted  with  and  dedicated 
to  as  the  tiptop  critics  of  the  town.  — As  for  the  poor  critics, 
I’ll  give  you  one  instance  of  my  management,  by  which  you  may 
guess  the  rest : A lean  man,  that  looked  like  a very  good  scholar, 
came  to  me  t’  other  day;  he  turned  over  your  Homer,  shook 
his  head,  shrugged  up  his  shoulders,  and  pish’d  at  every  line  of 
it.  “ One  would  wonder,”  says  he,  “ at  the  strange  presump- 
tion of  some  men ; Homer  is  no  such  easy  task  as  every  strip- 
ling, every  versifier — ” He  was  going  on  when  my  wife 
called  to  dinner.  “ Sir,”  said  I,  “ will  you  please  to  eat  a piece 
of  beef  with  me?  ” “ Mr.  Lintot,”  said  he,  “ I am  very  sorry 

you  should  be  at  the  expense  of  this  great  book  : I am  really  con- 
cerned on  your  account.”  “ Sir,  I am  much  obliged  to  you  : if 
you  can  dine  upon  a piece  of  beef , together  with  a slice  of  pud- 
ding—” “Mr.  Lintot,  I do  not  say  but  Mr.  Pope,  if  he 
would  condescend  to  advise  with  men  of  learning  — ” “Sir, 
the  pudding  is  upon  the  table,  if  you  please  to  go  in.”  My 
critic  complies;  he  comes  to  a taste  of  your  poet.y,  and  tells 


PPIOli , GAY,  AND  POPE . 


177 


are  in  the  society  of  men  who  have  filled  the 
greatest  parts  in  the  world’s  story  — you  are 
with  St.  John,  the  statesman ; Peterborough, 


me  in  the  same  breath  that  the  book  is  commendable,  and  the 
pudding  excellent. 

“ ‘Now,  sir,’  continued  Mr.  Lintot,  ‘ in  return  for  the  frank- 
ness I have  shown,  pray  tell  me,  is  it  the  opinion  of  your  friends 
at  court  that  my  Lord  Lansdowne  will  be  brought  to  the  bar  or 
not?  ’ I told  him  I heard  he  would  not,  and  I hoped  it,  my  lord 
being  one  I had  particular  obligations  to.  ‘ That  may  be,’ 
replied  Mr.  Lintot;  ‘ but  by  G—  if  he  is  not,  I shall  lose  the 
printing  of  a very  good  trial.’ 

“These,  my  lord,  are  a few  traits  with  which  you  discern 
the  genius  of  Mr.  Lintot,  which  I have  chosen  for  the  subject  of 
a letter.  I dropped  him  as  soon  as  I got  to  Oxford,  and  paid  a 
visit  to  my  Lord  Carleton,  at  Middleton.  . . . 

“lam,”  etc. 

“ Dr.  Swift  to  Mr.  Pope. 

“ Sept.  29,  1725. 

“ I am  now  returning  to  the  noble  scene  of  Dublin  — into  the 
grand  monde  — for  fear  of  burying  my  parts ; to  signalize  my- 
self among  curates  and  vicars,  and  correct  all  corruptions  crept 
in  relating  to  the  weight  of  bread-and-butter  through  those 
dominions  where  I govern.  I have  employed  my  time  (besides 
ditching)  in  finishing,  correcting,  amending,  and  transcribing 
my‘Travels’  [Gulliver’s],  in  four  parts  complete,  newly  aug- 
mented, and  intended  for  the  press  when  the  world  shall  deserve 
them,  or  rather,  when  a punter  shall  be  found  brave  enough  to 
venture  his  ears.  I like  the  scheme  of  our  meeting  after  dis- 
tresses and  dispersions;  but  the  chief  end  I propose  to  myself 
in  all  my  labors  is  to  vex  the  world  rather  than  divert  it;  and 
if  I could  compass  that  design  without  hurting  my  own  person 
or  fortune,  I would  be  the  most  indefatigable  writer  you  have 
ever  seen,  without  reading.  I am  exceedingly  ple  ased  that  you 
have  done  with  translations;  Lord  Treasurer  Oxford  often 
lamented  that  a rascally  world  should  lay  you  under  a necessity 
of  misemploying  your  genius  for  so  long  a time;  but  since  you 
will  now  be  so  much  better  employed,  when  you  think  of  the 
world,  give  it  one  lash  the  more  at  my  request.  I have  ever 
hated  all  nations,  professions,  and  communities ; and  all  my  love 
is  towards  individuals  — for  instance, T hate  the  tribe  of  lawyers, 
but  I love  Councillor  Such-a-one  and  Judge  Such-a-one  : it  is  so 
with  physicians  (I  will  not  speak  of  my  own  trade),  soldiers, 
English,  Scotch,  French,  and  the  rest.  But  principally  I hate 
and  detest  that  animal  called  man  — although  I heartily  love 
John,  Peter,  Thomas,  and  so  forth. 

“ . . . I have  got  materials  towards  a treatise  proving 
the  falsity  of  that  definition  animal  rationale , and  to  show  it 
should  be  only  rationv s c apax,  . . . The  matter  is  so  clear 

12 


178 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


the  conqueror ; Swift,  the  greatest  wit  of  all 
times;  Gay,  the  kindliest  laugher — it  is  a 
privilege  to  sit  in  that  company.  Delightful 


that  it  will  admit  of  no  dispute  — nay,  I will  hold  a hundred 
pounds  that  you  and  I agree  in  the  point.  . . . 

“ Mr.  Lewis  sent  me  an  account  of  Dr.  Arbuthnot’s  illness, 
which  is  a very  sensible  affliction  to  me,  who,  by  living  so  long 
out  of  the  world,  have  lost  that  hardness  of  heart  contracted  by 
years  and  general  conversation.  I am  daily  losing  friends,  and 
neither  seeking  nor  getting  others.  Oh  ! if  the  world  had  but  a 
dozen  of  Arbuthnots  in  it,  I would  burn  my  ‘ Travels ! ’ ” 

“Mr.  Pope  to  Dr.  Swift. 

“ October  15,  1725. 

“I  am  wonderfully  pleased  with  the  suddenness  of  your 
kind  answer.  It  makes  me  hope  you  are  coming  towards  us, 
and  that  you  incline  more  and  more  to  your  old  friends.  . . . 
Here  is  one  [Lord  Bolingbroke]  who  was  once  a powerful 
planet,  but  has  now  (after  long  experience  of  all  that  comes  of 
shining)  learned  to  be  content  with  returning  to  his  first  point 
without  the  thought  or  ambition  of  shining  at  all.  Here  is 
another  [Edward,  Earl  of  Oxford],  who  thinks  one  of  the  great- 
est glories  of  his  father  was  to  have  distinguished  and  loved  you, 
and  who  loves  you  hereditarily.  Here  is  Arbuthnot  recovered 
from  the  jaws  of  death,  and  more  pleased  with  the  hope  of  see- 
ing you  again  than  of  reviewing  a world,  every  part  of  which  he 
has  long  despised  but  what  is  made  up  of  a few  men  like 
yourself.  . . . 

“ Our  friend  Gay  is  used  as  the  friends  of  Tories  are  by 
Whigs  — and  generally  by  Tories  too.  Because  he  had  humor, 
he  was  supposed  to  have  dealt  with  Dr.  Swift,  in  like  manner 
as  when  any  one  had  learning  formerly,  he  was  thought  to  have 
dealt  with  the  devil.  . . . 

“ Lord  Bolingbroke  had  not  the  least  harm  by  his  fall ; I 
wish  he  had  received  no  more  by  his  other  fall.  But  Lord  Bol- 
ingbroke is  the  most  improved  mind  since  you  saw  him,  that 
ever  was  improved  without  shifting  into  a new  body,  or  being 
paullo  minus  ab  ctngelis . I have  often  imagined  to  myself,  that 
if  ever  all  of  us  meet  again,  after  so  many  varieties  and  changes, 
after  so  much  of  the  old  world  and  of  the  old  man  in  each  of  us 
has  been  altered,  that  scarce  a single  thought  of  the  one,  any 
more  than  a single  atom  of  the  other,  remains  just  the  same;  I 
have  fancied,  I say,  that  we  should  meet  like  the  righteous  in 
ihe  millennium,  quite  in  peace,  divested  of  all  our  former  pas- 
sions, smiling  at  our  past  follies,  and  content  to  enjoy  the  king, 
dom  of  the  just  in  tranquillity. 

“ I designed  to  have  left  the  following  page  for  Dr.  Arbuth- 
not to  fill,  but  he  is  so  touched  with  the  period  in  yours  to 
me  concerning  him,  that  he  intends  to  answer  it  by  a whole 
letter.  . , . ” 


PBIOR , GAY , AND  POPE . 


170 


and  generous  banquet ! with  a little  faith  and 
a little  fancy  any  one  of  us  here  may  enjoy  it, 
and  conjure  up  those  great  figures  out  of  the 
past,  and  listen  to  their  wit  and  wisdom. 
Mind  that  there  is  always  a certain  cachet 
about  great  men  — they  may  be  as  mean  on 
many  points  as  you  or  I,  but  they  carry  their 
great  air  — they  speak  of  common  life  more 
largely  and  generously  than  common  men  do 
— they  regard  the  world  with  a manlier  coun- 
tenance, and  see  its  real  features  more  fairly 
than  the  timid  shufflers  who  only  dare  to  look 
up  at  life  through  blinkers,  or  to  have  an 
opinion  when  there  is  a crowd  to  back  it.  He 
who  reads  these  noble  records  of  a past  age, 
salutes  and  reverences  the  great  spirits  who 
adorn  it.  You  may  go  home  now  and  talk 
with  St.  John  ; you  may  take  a volume  from 
your  library  and  listen  to  Swift  and  Pope. 

Might  I give  counsel  to  any  young  hearer, 
I would  say  to  him,  Try  to  frequent  the  com- 
pany of  your  betters.  In  books  and  life  that 
is  the  most  wholesome  society  ; learn  to  ad- 
mire rightly  ; the  great  pleasure  of  life  is  that. 
Note  what  the  great  men  admired  ; they  ad- 
mired great  things : narrow  spirits  admire 
baselv,  and  worship  meanly.  I know  nothing- 
in  any  story  more  gallant  and  cheering  than 
the  love  and  friendship  which  this  company  of 
famous  men  bore  towards  one  another.  There 
never  has  been  a society  of  men  more  friendly, 
as  there  never  was  one  more  illustrious.  Who 
dares  quarrel  with  Mr.  Pope,  great  and  famous 
himself,  for  liking  the  society  of  men  great 


180 


ENGLISH  HUMOBISTS. 


and  famous  ? and  for  liking  them  for  the  qual- 
ities which  made  them  so?  A mere  pretty 
fellow  from  White’s  could  not  have  written 
the  “ Patriot  King,’’  and  would  very  likely 
have  despised  little  Mr.  Pope,  the  decrepit 
Papist,  whom  the  great  St.  John  held  to  be 
one  of  the  best  and  greatest  of  men  : a mere 
nobleman  of  the  Court  could  no  more  have 
won  Barcelona,  than  he  could  have  written 
Peterborough’s  letters  to  Pope,*  which  are  as 
witty  as  Congreve : a mere  Irish  Dean  could 

* Of  the  Earl  of  Peterborough,  Walpole  says : “ He  was 
one  of  those  men  of  careless  wit  and  negligent  grace,  who 
scatter  a thousand  bon-mots  and  idle  verses,  which  we  painful 
compilers  gather  and  hoard,  till  the  authors  stare  to  find  them- 
selves authors.  Such  was  this  lord,  of  an  advantageous  figure 
and  enterprising  spirit;  as  gallant  as  Amadis  and  as  brave;  but 
a little  more  expeditious  in  his  journeys  : for  he  is  said  to  have 
seen  more  kings  and  more  postilions  than  any  other  man  in 
Europe.  . . . He  was  a man,  as  his  friend  said,  who  would 
neither  live  nor  die  like  any  other  mortal.” 

“From  the  Earl  of  Peterborough  to  Pope. 

“ You  must  receive  my  letters  with  a just  impartiality,  and 
give  grains  of  allowance  for  a gloomy  or  rainy  day;  I sink 
grievously  with  the  weather-glass,  and  am  quite  spiritless  when 
oppressed  with  the  thoughts  of  a birthday  or  a return. 

“ Dutiful  affection  was  bringing  me  to  town;  but  undutiful 
laziness,  and  being  much  out  of  order,  keep  me  in  the  country  : 
however,  if  alive,  I must  make  my  appearance  at  the  birth- 
day. ... 

“You  seem  to  think  it  vexatious  that  I shall  allow  you  but 
one  woman  at  a time  either  to  praise  or  love.  If  I dispute  with 
you  upon  this  point,  I doubt  every  jury  will  give  a verdict 
against  me.  So,  sir,  with  a Mahometan  indulgence,  I allow 
your  pluralities,  the  favorite  privilege  of  our  church. 

“I  find  you  don’t  mend  upon  correction;  again  I tell  you 
you  must  not  think  of  women  in  a reasonable  way;  you  know 
we  always  make  goddesses  of  those  we  adore  upon  earth;  and 
do  not  all  the  good  men  tell  us  we  must  lay  aside  reason  in 
what  relates  to  the  Deity? 

“ . . . I should  have  been  glad  of  anything  of  Swift’s. 
Pray,  when  you  write  to  him  next,  tell  him  I expect  him  with 
impatience,  iu  a place  as  odd  and  as  much  out  of  the  way  as 
himself.  “ Yours.” 

Peterbough  married  Mrs.  Anastasia  Robinson,  the  celebrated 
singer. 


FBI  OB,  GAY,  AND  POPE. 


181 


not  have  written  u Gulliver  ” ; and  all  these 
men  loved  Pope,  and  Pope  loved  all  these  men. 
To  name  his  friends  is  to  name  the  best  men 
of  his  time.  Addison  had  a senate ; Pope 
reverenced  his  equals.  lie  spoke  of  Swift 
with  respect  and  admiration  always.  His  ad- 
miration for  Bolingbroke  was  so  great,  that 
when  some  one  said  of  his  friend,  There  is 
something  in  that  great  man  which  looks  as  if 
he  was  placed  here  by  mistake, ” u Yes,”  Pope 
answered,  “ and  when  the  comet  appeared  to 
us  a month  or  two  ago,  I had  sometimes  an 
imagination  that  it  might  possibly  be  come  to 
carry  him  home  as  a coach  comes  to  one’s  door 
for  visitors.”  So  these  great  spirits  spoke  of 
one  another.  Show  me  six  of  the  dullest  mid- 
dle-aged gentlemen  that  ever  dawdled  round  a 
club  table  so  faithful  and  so  friendly. 

We  have  said  before' that  the  chief  wits  of 
this  time,  with  the  exception  of  Congreve, 
were  what  we  should  now  call  men’s  men. 
They  spent  many  hours  of  the  four-and-twenty, 
a fourth  part  of  each  day  nearly,  in  clubs  and 
coffee-houses,  where  they  dined,  drank,  and 
smoked.  Wit  and  news  went  by  word  of 
mouth;  a journal  of  1710  contained  the  very 
smallest  portion  of  one  or  the  other.  The 
chiefs  spoke,  the  faithful  habitues  sat  round  ; 
strangers  came  to  wonder  and  listen.  Old 
Dryden  had  Lis  headquarters  at  u Will’s,”  in 
Russell  Street,  at  the  corner  of  Bow  Street : 
at  which  place  Pope  saw  him  when  he  was 
twelve  years  old.  The  company  used  to  as- 
semble on  the  first  floor  — what  was  called 


182 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


the  dining-room  floor  in  those  days  — and  sat 
at  various  tables  smoking  their  pipes.  It  is 
recorded  that  the  beaux  of  the  day  thought  it 
a great  honor  to  be  allowed  to  take  a pinch 
out  of  Dryden’s  snuff-box.  When  Addison 
began  to  reign,  he  with  a certain  crafty  propri- 
ety — a policy  let  us  call  it  — which  belonged 
to  his  nature,  set  up  his  court,  and  appointed 
the  officers  of  his  royal  house.  His  palace 
was  44  Button’s,”  opposite  ‘4  Will’s.”  * A 
quiet  opposition,  a silent  assertion  of  empire, 
distinguished  this  great  man.  Addison’s  min- 
isters  were  Budgell,  Tickell,  Philips,  Carey ; 
his  master  of  the  horse,  honest  Dick  Steele, 
who  was  what  Duroc  was  to  Napoleon,  or 
Hardy  to  Nelson  ; the  man  who  performed 
his  master’s  bidding,  and  would  have  cheer- 
fully died  in  his  quarrel.  Addison  lived  with 
these  people  for  seven  or  eight  hours  every 
day.  The  male  society  passed  over  their 
punch-bowls  and  tobacco-pipes  about  as  much 
time  as  ladies  of  that  age  spent  over  Spadille 
and  Handle. 

For  a brief  space,  upon  coming  up  to  town, 
Pope  formed  part  of  King  Joseph’s  court,  and 
was  his  rather  too  eager  and  obsequious  hum- 


* “ Button  had  been  a servant  in  the  Countess  of  Warwick’s 
family,  who  under  the  patronage  of  Addison,  kept  a coffee- 
house on  the  south  side  of  Russell  Street,  about  two  doors  from 
Covent  Garden.  Here  it  was  that  the  wits  of  that  time  used  to 
assemble.  It  is  said  that  when  Addison  had  suffered  any  vexa- 
tion from  the  Countess,  he  withdrew  the  company  from  Button’s 
house. 

“ From  the  coffee-house  he  went  again  to  a tavern,  where 
he  often  sat  late  and  drank  too  much  wine.”  — Dr.  Johnson. 

Will’s  coffee-house  was  on  the  west  side  of  Bow  Street,  and 
“ corner  of  Russell  Street.”  See  “ Handbook  of  London.” 


PRIOR,  GAY ; AND  POPE. 


183 


ble  servant.*  Dick  Steele,  the  editor  of  the 
Tatler , Mr.  Addison's  man,  and  his  own  man 
too,  a person  of  no  little  figure  in  the  world 
of  letters,  patronized  the  young  poet,  and  set 
him  a task  or  two.  Young  Mr.  Pope  did  the 
tasks  very  quickly  and  smartly  (he  had  been 
at  the  feet,  quite  as  a boy,  of  Wycherley’s  f 
decrepit  reputation,  and  propped  up  for  a year 
that  doting  old  wit)  : he  was  anxious  to  be 
well  with  the  men  of  letters,  to  get  a footing 
and  a recognition.  He  thought  it  an  honor 
to  be  admitted  into  their  company ; to  have 
the  confidence  of  Mr.  Addison’s  friend,  Cap- 
tain Steele.  His  eminent  parts  obtained  for 

* “ My  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Addison  commenced  in  1712  : 1 
liked  him  then  as  well  as  I liked  any  man,  and  was  very  fond 
of  his  conversation.  It  was  very  soon  after  that  Mr.  Addison 
advised  me  ‘ not  to  be  content  with  the  applause  of  half  the 
nation.’  He  used  to  talk  much  and  often  to  me,  of  moderation 
in  parties : and  used  to  blame  his  dear  friend  Steele  for  being 
too  much  of  a party  man  He  encouraged  me  in  my  design  of 
translating  the  ‘ Iliad,’  which  was  begun  that  year,  and  finished 
in  1718.”  — Pope.  Spence’s  Anecdotes. 

“Addison  had  Budgell,  and  I think  Philips  in  the  house  with 
him. — Gay  they  would  call  one  of  my  eleves. — They  were 
angry  with  me  for  keeping  so  much  with  Dr.  Swift  and  some  of 
the  late  Ministry.”  — Pope.  Spence’s  Anecdotes. 

f“  To  Mr.  Blount. 

“Jan.  21,  1715-16. 

“I  know  of  nothing  that  will  be  so  interesting  to  you  at 
present  as  some  circumstances  of  the  last  act  of  that  eminent 
comic  poet  and  our  friend,  Wycherley.  He  had  often  told  me, 
and  I doubt  not  he  did  all  his  acquaintance,  that  he  would 
marry  as  soon  as  his  life  was  despaired  of.  Accordingly,  a few 
days  before  his  death,  he  underwent  the  ceremony,  and  joined 
together  those  two  sacraments  which  wise  men  say  we  should 
be  the  last  to  receive ; for,  if  you  observe,  matrimony  is  placed 
after  extreme  unction  in  our  catechism,  as  a kind  of  hint  of  the 
order  of  time  in  which  they  are  to  be  taken.  The  old  man  then 
lay  down,  satisfied  in  the  consciousness  of  having,  by  this  one 
act,  obliged  a woman  who  (he  was  told)  had  merit,  and  shown 
an  heroic  resentment  of  the  ill-usage  of  his  next  heir.  Some 
hundred  pounds  which  he  had  with  the  lady  discharged  his 
debts;  a jointure  of  £500  a year  made  her  a recompense;  and 


184 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


him  the  honor  of  heralding  Addison's  triumph 
of  4 ‘Cato”  with  his  admirable  prologue,  and 
heading  the  victorious  procession  as  it  were. 
Not  content  with  this  act  of  homage  and  ad- 
miration, he  wanted  to  distinguish  himself  by 
assaulting  Addison's  enemies,  and  attacked 
John  Dennis  with  a prose  lampoon,  which 
highly  offended  his  lofty  patron.  Mr.  Steele 
was  instructed  to  write  to  Mr.  Dennis,  and 
inform  him  that  Mr.  Pope’s  pamphlet  against 
him  was  written  quite  without  Mr.  Addison’s 
approval.*  Indeed,  u The  Narrative  of  Dr. 
Robert  Norris  on  the  Phrenzy  of  J.  D.”  is  a 
vulgar  and  mean  satire,  and  such  a blow  as 

the  nephew  was  left  to  comfort  himself  as  well  as  he  could  with 
the  miserable  remains  of  a mortgaged  estate.  I saw  our  friend 
twice  after  this  was  done  — less  peevish  in  his  sickness  than  he 
used  to  be  in  his  health  ; neither  much  afraid  of  dying,  nor  (which 
in  him  had  been  more  likely)  much  ashamed  of  marrying.  The 
evening  before  he  expired,  he  called  his  young  wife  to  the  bed- 
side, and  earnestly  entreated  her  not  to  deny  him  one  request  — 
the  last  he  should  make.  Upon  her  assurances  of  consenting  to 
it,  he  told  her  : ‘My  dear,  it  is  only  this  — that  you  will  never 
marry  aji  old  man  again.’  I cannot  help  remarking  that  sick- 
ness, which  often  destroys  both  wit  and  wisdom,  yet  seldom 
has  power  to  remove  that  talent  which  we  call  humor.  Mr. 
Wycherley  showed  his  even  in  his  last  compliment ; though  I 
think  his  request  a little  hard,  for  why  should  he  bar  her  from 
doubling  her  jointure  on  the  same  easy  terms? 

“ So  trivial  as  th*  se  circumstances  are,  I should  not  be  dis- 
pleased myself  to  know  such  trifles  when  they  concern  or  char- 
acterize any  eminent  person.  The  wisest  and  wittiest  of  men 
are  seldom  wiser  or  wittier  than  others  in  these  sober  moments  ; 
at  least,  our  friend  ended  much  in  the  same  character  he  had 
lived  in;  and  Horace’s  rule  for  play  may  as  well  be  applied  to 
him  as  a playwright : — 

“ ‘ Servetur  ad  iraum 

Qualis  ab  incepto  processerit  et  sibi  constet.’ 

“ I am,”  etc. 

* “ Addison,  who  was  no  stranger  to  the  world,  probably 
saw  the  selfishness  of  Pope’s  friendship ; and  resolving  that  he 
should  have  the  consequences  of  his  ofiiciousness  to  himself, 
informed  Dennis  by  Steele  that  he  was  sorry  for  the  insult.”  — 
Johnson,  Life  of  Addison. 


PBIOB , GAY,  AND  POPE . 


185 


the  magnificent  Adclison  could  never  desire  to 
see  any  partisan  of  his  strike  in  any  literary 
quarrel.  Pope  was  closely  allied  with  Swift 
when  he  wrote  this  pamphlet.  It  is  so  dirty 
that  it  has  been  printed  in  Swift’s  works,  too. 
It  bears  the  foul  marks  of  the  master  hand. 
Swift  admired  and  enjoyed  with  all  his  heart 
the  prodigious  genius  of  the  }Toung  Papist  lad 
out  of  Windsor  Forest,  who  had  never  seen  a 
university  in  his  life,  and  came  and  conquered 
the  Dons  and  the  doctors  with  his  wit.  He 
applauded,  and  loved  him,  too,  and  protected 
him,  and  taught  him  mischief.  I wish  Addi- 
son could  have  loved  him  better.  The  best 
satire  that  ever  has  been  penned  would  never 
have  been  written  then  ; and  one  of  the  best 
characters  the  world  ever  knew  would  have 
been  without  a flaw.  But  he  who  had  so  few 
equals  could  not  bear  one,  and  Pope  was  more 
than  that.  When  Pope,  trying  for  himself, 
and  soaring  on  his  immortal  young  wings, 
found  that  iiis,  too,  was  a genius,  which  no 
pinion  of  that  age  could  follow,  he  rose  and 
left  Addison’s  company,  settling  on  his  own 
eminence,  and  singing  his  own  song. 

It  was  not  possible  that  Pope  should  remain 
a retainer  of  Mr.  Addison  ; nor  likely  that 
after  escaping  from  his  vassalage  and  assum- 
ing an  independent  crown,  the  sovereign  whose 
allegiance  he  quitted  should  view  him  amica- 
bly.* They  did  not  do  wrong  to  mislike  each 

*“  While  I was  heated  with  what  I heard,  I wrote  a letter  to 
Mr.  Addison,  to  let  him  know  ‘ that  I was  not  unacquainted  with 
this  behavior  of  his;  that  if  I was  to  speak  of  him  severely  in 
return  for  it,  it  should  not  be  in  such  a dirty  way;  that  I should 


186 


ENGLISH  HUMOBIS TS. 


other.  They  but  followed  the  impulse  of  na- 
ture, and  the  consequence  of  position.  When 
Bernadotte  became  heir  to  a throne,  the 
Prince  Royal  of  Sweden  was  naturally  Napo- 
leon’s enemy.  44  There  are  many  passions 
and  tempers  of  mankind,”  says  Mr.  Addison 
in  the  Spectator , speaking  a couple  of  years 
before  the  little  differences  between  him  and 
Mr.  Pope  took  place,  44  which  naturally  dis- 
pose us  to  depress  and  vilify  the  merit  of  one 
rising  in  the  esteem  of  mankind.  All  those 
who  made  their  entrance  into  the  world  with 
the  same  advantages,  and  were  once  looked 
on  as  his  equals,  are  apt  to  think  the  fame  of  his 
merits  a reflection  on  their  own  deserts.  Those 
who  were  once  his  equals  envy  and  defame 
him,  because  they  now  see  him  the  superior ; 
and  those  who  were  once  his  superiors,  because 
they  look  upon  him  as  their  equal.”  Did  Mr. 
Addison,  justly  perhaps  thinking  that,  as  young 
Mr.  Pope  had  not  had  the  benefit  of  a univer- 
sity education,  he  couldn’t  know  Greek,  there- 
fore he  could  n’t  translate  Homer,  encourage 
his  young  friend  Mr.  Tickell,  of  Queen’s,  to 
translate  that  poet,  and  aid  him  with  his  own 
known  scholarship  and  skill?  f It  was  nat- 

rather  tell  him  himself  fairly  of  his  faults,  and  allow  his  good 
qualities;  and  that  it  should  be  something  in  the  following 
manner.’  I then  subjoined  the  first  sketch  of  what  has  since 
been  called  my  satire  on  Addison.  He  used  me  very  civilly 
ever  after;  and  never  did  me  any  injustice,  that  I know  of,  from 
that  time  to  his  death,  which  was  about  three  years  after.”  — 
Pope.  Spence's  Anecdotes. 

t “ That  Tickell  should  have  been  guilty  of  a villany  seems  to 
us  highly  improbable;  that  Addison  should  have  been  guilty  of 
a villany  seems  to  be  highly  improbable ; but  that  these  two 
men  should  have  conspired  together  to  commit  a villany,  seoms, 
to  us3  improbable  in  a tenfold  degree.”  — Macaulay. 


PRIOR,  GAY , AND  POPE. 


187 


ural  that  Mr.  Addison  should  doubt  of  the 
learning  of  an  amateur  Grecian,  should  have 
a high  opinion  of  Mr.  Tickell,  of  Queen’s, 
and  should  help  that  ingenious  young  man. 
It  was  natural,  on  the  other  hand,  that  Mr. 
Pope  and  Mr.  Pope’s  friends  should  believe 
that  this  counter-translation,  suddenly  adver- 
tised and  so  long  written,  though  Tickell’s 
college  friends  had  never  heard  of  it  — though, 
when  Pope  first  wrote  to  Addison  regarding 
his  scheme,  Mr.  Addison  knew  nothing  of  the 
similar  project  of  Tickell,  of  Queen’s  — it  was 
natural  that  Mr.  Pope  and  his  friends,  having 
interests,  passions,  and  prejudices  of  their  own, 
should  believe  thatTickell’s  translation  was  but 
an  act  of  opposition  against  Pope,  and  that 
they  should  call  Mr.  Tickell’s  emulation  Mr. 
Addison’s  envy — if  envy  it  were. 

“ And  were  there  one  whose  fires 
True  genius  kindles  and  fair  fame  inspires, 

Blest  with  each  talent  and  each  art  to  please. 

And  born  to  write,  converse,  and  live  with  ease  ; 
Should  such  a man,  too  fond  to  rule  alone, 

Bear  like  the  Turk  no  brother  near  the  throne  ; 

View  him  with  scornful  yet  with  jealous  eyes, 

And  hate,  for  arts  that  caused  himself  to  rise; 

Damn  with  faint  praise,  assent  with  civil  leer, 

And  without  sneering,  teach  the  rest  to  sneer; 
Willing  to  wound,  and  yet  afraid  to  strike, 

Just  hint  a fault,  and  hesitate  dislike ; 

Alike  reserved  to  blame  as  to  commend 
A timorous  foe  and  a suspicious  friend  ; 

Dreading  even  fools,  by  flatterers  besieged, 

And  so  obliging  that  he  ne’er  obliged : 

Like  Cato  give  his  little  senate  laws, 

And  sit  attentive  to  his  own  applause ; 

While  wits  and  templars  every  sentence  raise, 

And  wonder  with  a foolish  face  of  praise; 

Who  but  must  laugh  if  such  a man  there  be, 

Who  would  not  weep  if  Atticus  were  he  ? ” 


188 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


“ I sent  the  verses  to  Mr.  Addison,”  said  Pope, 
“ and  he  used  me  very  civilly  ever  after.”  No 
wonder  he  did.  It  was  shame  very  likely  more 
than  fear  that  silenced  him.  Johnson  recounts 
an  interview  between  Pope  and  Addison  after 
their  quarrel,  in  which  Pope  wus  angry,  and 
Addison  tried  to  be  contemptuous  and  calm. 
Such  a weapon  as  Pope’s  must  have  pierced  any 
scorn.  It  flashes  forever,  and  quivers  in  Addi- 
son’s memory.  His  great  figure  looks  out  on 
us  from  the  past  — stainless  but  for  that  — 
pale,  calm,  and  beautiful : it  bleeds  from  that 
black  wound.  He  should  be  drawn,  like  St. 
Sebastian,  with  that  arrow  in  his  side.  As  he 
sent  to  Gay  and  asked  his  pardon,  as  he  bade 
his  step-son  come  and  see  his  death,  be  sure  he 
had  forgiven  Pope,  when  he  made  ready  to 
show  how  a Christian  could  die. 

Pope  then  formed  part  of  the  Addisonian 
court  for  a short  time,  and  describes  himself 
in  his  letters  as  sitting  with  that  coterie  until 
two  o’clock  in  the  morning  over  punch  and 
burgundy  amidst  the  fumes  of  tobacco.  To 
use  an  expression  of  the  present  day,  the 
u pace”  of  those  viveurs  of  the  former  age 
was  awful.  Peterborough  lived  into  the  very 
jaws  of  death  ; Godolphin  labored  all  day  and 
gambled  at  night ; Bolingbroke,*  writing  to 


*“Lord  Bolingbroke  to  the  Three  Yahoos  of 
Twickenham. 

“ July  23,  1726. 

“Jonathan,  Alexander,  John,  most  excellent  Trium- 
virs of  Parnassus,  — 

“ Though  you  are  probably  very  indifferent  where  I am,  or 
what  I am  doing,  yet  I resolve  to  believe  the  contrary.  I per- 
suade myself  that  you  have  sent  at  least  fifteen  times  within  this 


PBIOB,  GAY,  AND  POPE . 


189 


Swift,  from  Dawley,  in  liis  retirement,  dating 
his  letter  at  six  o’clock  in  the  morning,  and 
rising,  as  he  says,  refreshed,  serene,  and  calm, 
calls  to  mind  the  time  of  his  London  life  ; 
when  about  that  hour  he  used  to  be  going  to 
bed,  surfeited  with  pleasure,  and  jaded  with 
business  ; his  head  often  full  of  schemes,  and 
his  heart  as  often  full  of  anxiety.  It  was  too 
hard,  too  coarse  a life  for  the  sensitive,  sickly 
Pope.  He  was  the  only  wit  of  the  day,  a 
friend  writes  to  me,  who  wasn’t  fat.* * **  Swift 
was  fat ; Addison  was  fat ; Steele  was  fat ; 
Gay  and  Thomson  were  preposterously  fat  — 
all  that  fuddling  and  punch*  drinking,  that  club 
and  coffee-house  boozing,  shortened  the  lives 
and  enlarged  the  waistcoats  of  the  men  of  that 
age.  Pope  withdrew  in  a great  measure  from 
this  boisterous  London  company,  and  being 
put  into  an  independence  by  the  gallant  exer- 
tions of  Swift  | and  his  private  friends,  and 
by  the  enthusiastic  national  admiration  which 


fortnight  to  Dawley  farm,  and  that  you  are  extremely  mortified 
at  my  long  silence.  To  relieve  you,  therefore,  from  this  great 
anxiety  of  mind,  I can  do  no  less  than  write  a few  lines  to  you  ; 
and  I please  myself  beforehand  with  the  vast  pleasure  w hich 
this  epistle  must  needs  give  you.  That  I may  add  to  this  pleas- 
ure, and  give  further  proofs  of  my  beneficent  temper,  I will 
likewise  inform  you,  that  I shall  be  in  your  neighborhood  again, 
by  the  end  of  next  week  : by  which  time  I hope  that  Jonathan’s 
imagination  of  business  will  be  succeeded  by  some  imagination 
more  becoming  a professor  of  that  divine  science,  la  bagatelle . 
Adieu.  Jonathan,  Alexander,  John,  mirth  be  with  you!  ” 

* Prior  must  be  excepted  from  this  observation.  “He  was 
lank  and  lean.” 

t Swift  exerted  himself  very  much  in  promoting  the 

** Iliad  ” subscription;  and  also  introduced  Cope  to  Harley  and 
Bolingbroke. — Pope  realized  by  the  “Iliad”  upwards  of 
£5,000,  which  he  laid  out  partly  in  annuities,  and  partly  in  the 
purchase  of  his  famous  villa.  Johnson  remarks  that  “ it  would 
De  hard  to  find  a man  so  well  entitled  to  notice  by  his  wTit,  that 
ever  delighted  so  much  in  talking  of  his  money..” 


190 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


justly  rewarded  his  great  achievement  of  the 
44  Iliad,”  purchased  that  famous  villa  of  Twick- 
enham which  his  song  and  life  celebrated ; 
duteously  bringing  his  old  parent  to  live  and 
die  there,  entertaining  his  friends  there,  and 
making  occasional  visits  to  London  in  his  little 
chariot,  in  which  Atterbury  compared  him  to 
44  Homer  in  a nutshell.” 

44  Mr.  Dry  den  was  not  a genteel  man,”  Pope 
quaintly  said  to  Spence,  speaking  of  the  man- 
ner and  habits  of  the  famous  old  patriarch  of 
44  Will’s.”  With  regard  to  Pope’s  own  man- 
ners, we  have  the  best  contemporary  authority 
that  they  were  singularly  refined,  and  polished. 
With  his  extraordinary  sensibility,  with  his 
known  tastes,  with  his  delicate  frame,  with 
his  power  and  dread  of  ridicule,  Pope  could 
have  been  no  other  than  what  we  call  a highly 
bred  person.*  His  closest  friends,  with  the 
exception  of  Swift,  were  among  the  delights 
and  ornaments  of  the  polished  society  of  their 
age.  Garth, f the  accomplished  and  benevo- 

lent, whom  Steele  has  described  so  charmingly, 
of  whom  Codrington  said  that  his  character- 
was  44  all  beauty,”  and  whom  Pope  himself 
called  the  best  of  Christians  without  knowing 


* “ His  (Pope’s)  voice  in  common  conversation  was  so  nat- 
urally musical,  that  I remember  honest  Tom  Southerne  used 
always  to  call  him  ‘ the  little  nightingale.’  ” — Orrery. 

f Garth,  whom  Dryden  calls  “ generous  as  his  Muse,”  was 
a Yorkshireman.  He  graduated  at  Cambridge,  and  was  made 
M.  D.  in  1691.  He  soon  distinguished  himself  in  his  profession, 
by  his  poem  of  the  “Dispensary,”  and  in  society,  and  pro. 
nounced  Dryden’s  funeral  oration.  He  was  a strict  "Whig,  a 
notable  member  of  the  “ Kit-Cat,”  and  a friendly,  convivial, 
able  man.  He  was  knighted  by  George  I.,  with  the  Duke  of 
Marlborough’s  sword,  He  died  in  1718. 


PPIOP,  GAY , AND  POPE. 


191 


it ; Arbuthnot,*  one  of  the  wisest,  wittiest, 
most  accomplished,  gentlest  of  mankind  ; Bo- 
lingbroke,  the  Alcibiades  of  his  age  ; the  gen- 
erous Oxford ; the  magnificent,  the  witty,  the 
famous  and  chivalrous  Peterborough : these 
were  the  fast  and  faithful  friends  of  Pope,  the 
most  brilliant  company  of  friends,  let  us  re- 
peat, that  the  world  has  ever  seen.  The 
favorite  recreation  of  his  leisure  hours  was 


* “ Arbuthnot  was  the  son  of  an  episcopal  clergyman  in 
Scotland,  and  belonged  to  an  ancient  and  distinguished  Scotch 
family.  He  was  educated  at  Aberdeen  ; and,  coming  up  to  Lon- 
don — according  to  a Scotch  practice  often  enough  alluded  to 
— to  make  his  fortune  — first  made  himself  known  by  ‘An  Ex- 
amination of  Dr.  Woodward’s  Account  of  the  Deluge.’  He  be- 
came physician  successively  to  Prince  George  of  Denmark  and 
to  Queen  Anne.  He  is  usually  allowed  to  have  been  the  most 
learned,  as  well  as  one  of  the  most  witty  and  humorous  mem- 
bers of  the  Scriblerus  Club.  The  opinion  entertained  of  him  by 
the  humorists  of  the  day  is  abundantly  evidenced  in  their 
correspondence.  When  he  found  himself  in  his  last  illness,  he 
wrote  thus,  from  his  retreat  at  Hampstead,  to  Swift : — 

“ ‘ Hampstead,  Oct.  4, 1734. 

“ ‘ My  Dear  and  Worthy  Friend , — You  have  no  reason  to 
put  me  among  the  rest  of  your  forgetful  friends,  for  I wrote 
two  long  letters  to  you,  to  which  I never  received  one  word  of 
answer.  The  first  was  about  your  health ; the  last  I sent  a great 
while  ago,  by  one  De  la  Mar.  I can  assure  you  with  great  truth 
that  none  of  your  friends  or  acquaintance  has  a more  warm 
heart  towards  you  than  myself.  I am  going  out  of  this  trouble- 
some world,  and  you,  among  the  rest  of  my  friends,  shall  have 
my  last  prayers  and  good  wishes. 

“ ‘ . I came  out  to  this  place  so  reduced  by  a dropsy  and 

an  asthma,  that  I could  neither  sleep,  breathe,  eat,  nor  move.  I 
most  earnestly  desired  and  begged  of  God  that  he  would  take 
me.  Contrary  to  my  expectation,  upon  venturing  to  ride  (which 
Iliad  forborne  for  some  years),  I recovered  my  strength  to  a 
pretty  considerable  degree,  slept,  and  had  my  stomach  again. 
. . . What  I did,  I can  assure  you,  was  not  for  life,  but  ease;  for 
I am  at  present  in  the  case  of  a man  that  was  almost  in  harbor, 
and  then  blown  back  to  sea — who  has  a reasonable  hope  of 
going  to  a good  place,  and  an  absolute  certainty  of  leaving  a 
very  bad  one.  Not  that  I have  any  particular  disgust  at  the 
world;  for  I have  as  great  comfort  in  my  own  family  and  from 
the  kindness  of  my  friends  as  any  man,  but  the  world,  in  the 
main,  displeases  me,  and  I have  too  true  a presentiment  of 
calamities  that  are  to  befall  my  country.  However,  if  I should 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


102 


the  society  of  painters,  whose  art  he  practised. 
In  his  correspondence  are  letters  between  him 
and  Jervas,  whose  pupil  he  loved  to  be, — 
Richardson,  a celebrated  artist  of  his  time, 
and  who  painted  for  him  a portrait  of  his  old 
mother,  and  for  whose  picture  he  asked  and 
thanked  Richardson  in  one  of  the  most  delight- 
ful letters  that  ever  were  penned,* — and  the 


have  the  happiness  to  see  you  before  I die,  you  Mill  find  that  I 
enjoy  the  comforts  of  life  with  my  usual  cheerfulness.  I cannot 
imagine  why  you  are  frightened  from  a journey  to  England : 
the  reasons  you  assign  are  not  sufficient  — the  journey  I am 
sure  would  do  you  good.  In  general,  I recommend  riding,  of 
which  I have  always  had  a good  opinion,  and  can  now’  confirm 
it  from  my  own  experience. 

“ ‘ My  family  give  you  their  love  and  service.  The  great 
loss  I sustained  in  one  of  them  gave  me  my  first  shock,  and  the 
trouble  I have  with  the  rest  to’bring  them  to  a right  temper  to 
bear  the  loss  of  a father  who  loves  them,  and  whom  they  love, 
is  really  a most  sensible  affliction  to  me.  I am  afraid,  my  dear 
friend,  wre  shall  never  see  one  another  more  in  this  world.  I 
shall,  to  the  last  moment,  preserve  my  love  and  esteem  for  you, 
being  well  assured  you  will  never  leave  the  paths  of  virtue  and 
honor;  for  all  that  is  in  this  wrnrld  is  not  wrorth  the  least  devia- 
tion from  the  way.  It  Mill  be  great  pleasure  to  me  to  hear  from 
you  sometimes;  for  none  are  with  more  sincerity  than  I am,  my 
dear  friend,  your  most  faithful  friend  and  humble  servant.’  ” 
“Arbuthnot,”  Johnson  says,  “ M as  a man  of  great  compre- 
hension, skilful  in  his  profession,  versed  in  the  sciences,  ac- 
quainted with  ancient  literature,  and  able  to  animate  his  mass 
of  knowledge  by  a bright  and  active  imagination  ; a scholar  with 
great  brilliance  of  wit;  a wit  M ho,  in  the  crowd  of  life,  retained 
and  discovered  a noble  ardor  of  religious  zeal.” 

Dugald  SteMTart  has  testified  to  Arbuthnot’s  ability  in  a 
department  of  which  he  wras  particularly  qualified  to  judge  : 
“ Let  me  add,  that,  in  the  list  of  philosophical  reformers,  the 
authors  of  ‘ Martinus  Scriblerus  ’ ought  not  to  be  overlooked. 
Their  happy  ridicule  of  the  scholastic  logic  and  metaphysics  is 
universally  knowm ; but  few  are  aware  of  the  acuteness  and 
sagacity  displayed  in  their  allusions  to  some  of  the  most  vulner- 
able passages  in  Locke’s  ‘ Essay.’  In  this  part  of  the  work  it  is 
commonly  understood  that  Arbuthnot  had  the  principal  share.” 
— See  Preliminary  Dissertation  to  Encyclopedia  Dritannica, 
note  to  p.  242,  and  also  note  b.  b.  b.,  p.  285. 

* “ To  Mr.  Richardson. 

“ Twickenham,  June  10, 1733. 

**  As  I know  you  and  I mutually  desire  to  see  one  another, 


PRIOR,  GAY,  AXD  POPP. 


193 


wonderful  Kneller,  who  bragged  more,  spelt 
worse,  and  painted  better  than  any  artist  of 
his  day.* * 

It  is  affecting  to  note,  through  Pope’s  Cor- 
respondence, the  marked  way  in  which  his 
friends,  the  greatest,  the  most  famous,  and 
wittiest  men  of  the  time  — generals  and 
statesmen,  philosophers  and  divines  — all 
have  a kind  word  and  a kind  thought  for  the 
good  simple  old  mother,  whom  Pope  tended 
so  affectionately.  Those  men  would  have 
scarcely  valued  her,  but  that  they  knew  how 
much  he  loved  her,  and  that  they  pleased  him 
by  thinking  of  her.  If  his  early  letters  to 
women  are  affected  and  insincere,  whenever 
he  speaks  about  this  one,  it  is  with  a childish 


I hoped  that  this  day  our  wishes  would  have  met,  and  brought 
vou  hither.  And  this  for  the  very  reason,  which  possibly  might 
Linder  you  coming,  that  my  poor  mother  is  dead.  I thank  God, 
her  death  was  as  easy  as  her  life  was  innocent;  and  as  it  cost 
her  not  a groan,  or  even  a sigh,  there  is  yet  upon  her  counte- 
nance such  an  expression  of  tranquillity,  nay,  almost  of  pleas- 
ure, that  it  is  even  amiable  to  behold  it.  It  would  afford  the 
finest  image  of  a saint  expired  that  ever  painting  drew;  and  it 
would  be  the  greatest  obligation  which  even  that  obliging  art 
could  ever  bestow  on  a friend,  if  you  could  come  and  sketch  it 
for  me.  I am  sure  if  there  be  no  very  prevalent  obstacle,  you 
will  leave  any  common  business  to  do  this;  and  I hope  to  see 
you  this  evening,  as  late  as  you  will,  or  to-morrow  morning  as 
early,  before  this  winter  flower  is  faded.  I will  defer  her 
interment  till  to-morrow  night.  I know  you  love  me,  or  I could 
not  have  written  this  — I could  not  (at  this  time)  have  written 
at  all.  Adieu ! May  you  die  as  happily ! 

“ Yours,”  etc. 

* “ Mr.  Pope  was  with  Sir  Godfrey  Kneller  one  day,  when 
his  nephew,  a Guinea  trader,  came  in.  ‘ Nephew,’  said  Sir 
Godfrey,  ‘ you  have  the  honor  of  seeing  the  two  greatest  men 
in  the  world.’  — ‘ I don’t  know  how  great  you  may  be,’  said  the 
Guinea  man,  * but  I don’t  like  your  looks  : I have  often  bought 
a man  much  better  than  both  of  you  together,  all  muscles 
and  bones,  for  ten  guineas.’”  — Dr.  Warburton.  Spence’ 9 
Anecdotes . 


13 


194 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


tenderness  and  an  almost  sacred  simplicity. 
In  1713,  when  young  Mr.  Pope  had,  by  a 
series  of  the  most  astonishing  victories  and 
dazzling  achievements,  seized  the  crown  of 
poetry,  and  the  town  was  in  an  uproar  of  ad- 
miration, or  hostility,  for  the  young  chief ; 
when  Pope  was  issuing  his  famous  decrees  for 
the  translation  of  the  44  Iliad  ” ; when  Dennis 
and  the  lower  critics  were  hooting  and  assail- 
ing him  ; when  Addison  and  the  gentlemen  of 
his  court  were  sneering  with  sickening  hearts 
at  the  prodigious  triumphs  of  the  young  con- 
queror ; when  Pope,  in  a fever  of  victory,  and 
genius,  and  hope,  and  anger,  was  struggling 
through  the  crowd  of  shouting  friends  and 
furious  detractors  to  his  temple  of  Fame,  his 
old  mother  writes  from  the  country,  6 ‘My 
deare,”  says  she,  — <4  M}r  deare,  there  ’s  Mr. 
Blount,  of  Mapel  Durom,  dead  the  same  day 
that  Mr.  Inglefield  died.  Your  sister  is  well ; 
but  your  brother  is  sick.  My  service  to  Mrs. 
Blount,  and  all  that  ask  of  me.  I hope  to 
hear  from  you,  and  that  you  are  well,  which 
is  my  daily  prayer ; and  this  with  my  bless- 
ing.” The  triumph  marches  by,  and  the  car 
of  the  young  conqueror,  the  hero  of  a hun- 
dred brilliant  victories  ; the  fond  mother  sits 
in  the  quiet  cottage  at  home  and  says,  44  I 
send  you  my  daily  prayers,  and  I bless  you, 
my  deare.” 

In  our  estimate  of  Pope’s  character,  let  us 
always  take  into  account  that  constant  tender- 
ness and  fidelit}7  of  affection  which  pervaded 
and  sanctified  his  life,  and  never  forget  that 


PBIOP,  GAY i AND  POPE. 


195 


maternal  benediction,*  It  accompanied  him 
always  : his  life  seems  purified  by  those  artless 
and  heartfelt  prayers.  And  he  seems  to  have 
received  and  deserved  the  fond  attachment  of 
the  other  members  of  his  family.  It  is  not  a 
little  touching  to  read  in  Spence  of  the  enthu- 
siastic admiration  with  which  his  half-sister 
regarded  him*  and  the  simple  anecdote  by 
which  she  illustrates  her  love.  44  I think  no 
man  was  ever  so  little  fond  of  money.”  Mrs. 
Rackett  says  about  her  brother,  44  I think  my 
brother  when  he  was  young  read  more  books 
than  any  man  in  the  ’world  ” ; and  she  falls  to 
telling  stories  of  his  school-days,  and  the  man- 
ner in  which  his  master  at  Twyford  ill-used 
him.  44 1 don't  think  my  brother  knew  what 
fear  was,”  she  continues  : and  the  accounts 
of  Pope’s  friends  bear  out  this  character 
for  courage.  When  he  had  exasperated  the 
dunces,  and  threats  of  violence  and  personal 
assault  were  brought  to  him,  the  dauntless 
little  champion  never  for  one  instant  allowed 
fear  to  disturb  him,  or  condescended  to  take 
any  guard  in  his  daily  walks  except  occasion- 
ally his  faithful  dog  to  bear  him  company. 
44 1 had  rather  die  at  once,”  said  the  gallant 
little  cripple,  44  than  live  in  fear  of  those  ras- 
cals.” 


* Swift’s  mention  of  him  as  one 

“ . . . whose  filial  piety  excels 
Whatever  Grecian  story  tells,” 

is  well  known.  And  a sneer  of  Walpole’s  may  be  put  to  a 
better  use  than  he  ever  intended  it  for,  apropos  of  this  subject.  — 
He  charitably  sneers,  in  one  of  his  letters,  at  Spence’s  “ fondling 
an  old  mother  — in  imitation  of  Pope ! ” 


1% 


ENGLISH  HUMOBISTS. 


As  for  his  death,  it  was  what  the  noble 
Arbuthnot  asked  and  enjoyed  for  himself  — 
a euthanasia  — a beautiful  end.  A perfect 
benevolence,  affection,  serenity,  hallowed  the 
departure  of  that  high  soul.  Even  in  the  very 
hallucinations  of  his  brain,  and  weaknesses 
of  his  delirium,  there  was  something  almost 
sacred.  Spence  describes  him  in  his  last  days, 
looking  up  and  with  a rapt  gaze  as  if  some- 
thing had  suddenly  passed  before  him.  “ He 
said  to  me,  4 What ’s  that  ? ’ pointing  into  the 
air  with  a very  steady  regard,  and  then  looked 
down  and  said,  with  a smile  of  the  greatest 
softness,  c ’T  was  a vision  ! ’ ” He  laughed 
scarcely  ever,  but  his  companions  describe 
his  countenance  as  often  illuminated  by  a 
peculiar  sweet  smile. 

“ When,”  said  Spence,*  the  kind  anecdotist 
whom  Johnson  despised,  — u When  I was  tell- 
ing Lord  Bolingbroke  that  Mr.  Pope,  on  every 
catching  and  recovery  of  his  mind,  was 
always  saying  something  kindly  of  his  present 
or  absent  friends  ; and  that  this  was  so  sur- 
prising, as  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  humanity  had 
outlasted  understanding,  Lord  Bolingbroke 
said,  ; It  has  so/  and  then  added,  c I never  in 
my  life  knew  a man  who  had  so  tender  a 


* Joseph  Spence  was  the  son  of  a clergyman,  near  Winches- 
ter. He  was  a short  time  at  Eton,  and  afterwards  became  a 
Fellow  of  New  College,  Oxford,  a clergyman  and  professor  of 
poetry.  He  was  a friend  of  Thomson’s,  whose  reputation  he 
aided.  He  published  an  “ Essay  on  the  Odyssey  ” in  1726, 
which  introduced  him  to  Pope.  Everybody  liked  him.  His 
“Anecdotes”  were  placed,  while  still  in  MS.,  at  the  service  of 
Johnson  and  also  of  Malone.  They  were  published  by  Mr.  Singer 
in  1820, 


PRIOR , GAY,  AND  POPE. 


197 


heart  for  his  particular  friends,  or  a more 
general  friendship  for  mankind.  I have 
known  him  these  thirty  years,  and  value 
myself  more  for  that  man’s  love  than  — ’ 
Here,”  Spence  says,  “ St.  John  sunk  his  head 
and  lost  his  voice  in  tears.”  The  sob  which 
finishes  the  epitaph  is  finer  ,than  words.  It  is 
the  cloak  thrown  over  the  father’s  face  in  the 
famous  Greek  picture,  which  hides  grief  and 
heightens  it. 

In  Johnson’s  “ Life  of  Pope  ” you  will  find 
described,  with  rather  a malicious  minuteness, 
some  of  the  personal  habits  and  infirmities  of 
the  great  little  Pope.  His  body  was  crooked, 
he  was  so  short  that  it  was  necessary  to  raise 
his  chair  in  order  to  place  him  on  a level  with 
other  people  at  table.*  He  was  sewed  up  in 
a buckram  suit  every  morning  and  required  a 
nurse  like  a child.  His  contemporaries  reviled 
these  misfortunes  with  a strange  acrimony, 
and  made  his  poor  deformed  person  the  butt 
for  many  a bolt  of  heavy  wit.  The  facetious 
Mr.  Dennis,  in  speaking  of  him,  says,  “If 
you  take  the  first  letter  of  Mr.  Alexander 
Pope’s  Christian  name,  and  the  first  and  last 
letters  of  his  surname,  you  hive  A.  P.  E.” 
Pope  catalogues,  at  the  end  of  “ Dunciad,” 


*He  speaks  of  Arbuthnot’s  having  helped  him  through 
“ that  long  disease,  my  life.”  But  not  only  was  he  so  feeble  as 
is  implied  in  his  use  of  the  “ buckram,”  but  “ it  now  appears,” 
says  Mr.  Peter  Cunningham,  “ from  his  unpublished  letters,  that 
like  Lord  Hervey,  be  had  recourse  to  ass’s  milk  for  the  preser- 
vation of  his  health.”  It  is  to  his  lordship’s  use  of  that  simple 
beverage  that  he  alludes  when  he  says,  — 

“ Let  Sporus  tremble ! — A.  What,  that  thing  of  silk, 
8porus,  that  mere  white-curd  of  ass’s  milk?  ” 


198 


ENGLISH  HUMOBISTS. 


with  a rueful  precision,  other  pretty  names, 
besides  Ape,  which  Dennis  called  him.  That 
great  critic  pronounced  Mr.  Pope  a little  ass, 
a fool,  a coward,  a Papist,  and  therefore  a 
hater  of  Scripture,  and  so  forth.  It  must  be 
remembered  that  the  pillory  was  a flourish- 
ing and  popular  institution  in  those  days. 
Authors  stood  in  it  in  the  body  sometimes, 
and  dragged  their  enemies  thither  morally, 
hooted  them  with  foul  abuse  and  assailed  them 
with  garbage  of  the  gutter.  Poor  Pope’s 
figure  was  an  easy  one  for  those  clumsy  cari- 
caturists to  draw.  Any  stupid  hand  could 
draw  a hunchback  and  write  Pope  underneath. 
They  did.  A libel  was  published  against 
Pope,  with  such  a frontispiece.  This  kind  of 
rude  jesting  was  an  evidence  not  only  of  an 
ill  nature,  but  a dull  one.  When  a child 
makes  a pun  or  a lout  breaks  out  into  a laugh, 
it  is  some  very  obvious  combination  of  words, 
or  discrepancy  of  objects,  which  provokes  the 
infantine  satirist,  or  tickles  the  boorish  wag ; 
and  many  of  Pope’s  revilers  laughed  not  so 
much  because  they  were  wicked,  as  because 
they  knew  no  better. 

Without  the  utmost  sensibility,  Pope  could 
not  have  been  the  poet  he  was ; and  through 
his  life,  however  much  he  protested  that  he 
disregarded  their  abuse,  the  coarse  ridicule  of 
his  opponents  stung  and  tore  him.  One  of 
Cibber’s  pamphlets  coming  into  Pope’s  hands, 
whilst  Richardson  the  painter  was  with  him, 
Pope  turned  round  and  said,  4 4 These  things 
are  my  diversions”;  and  Richardson,  sitting 


PRIOR,  GAY,  AND  POPE . 


199 


by  whilst  Pope  perused  the  libel,  said  he  saw 
his  features  u writhing  with  anguish.’’  How 
little  human  nature  changes ! Can’t  one  see 
that  little  figure?  Can’t  one  fancy  one  is 
reading  Horace?  Can’t  one  fancy  one  is 
speaking  of  to-day? 

The  tastes  and  sensibilities  of  Pope  wThich 
led  him  to  cultivate  the  society  of  persons 
of  fine  manners,  or  wit,  or  taste,  or  beauty, 
caused  him  to  shrink  equally  from  that  shabby 
and  boisterous  crew  which  formed  the  rank 
and  file  of  literature  in  his  time : and  he  was 
as  unjust  to  these  men  as  they  to  him.  The 
delicate  little  creature  sickened  at  habits  and 
company  which  were  quite  tolerable  to  robuster 
men  : and  in  the  famous  feud  between  Pope 
and  the  Dunces,  and  without  attributing  any 
peculiar  wrong  to  either,  one  can  quite  un- 
derstand how  the  two  parties  should  so  hate 
each  other.  As  I fancy,  it  was  a sort  of 
necessity  that  when  Pope’s  triumph  passed,  Mr. 
Addison  and  his  men  should  look  rather  con- 
temptuously down  on  it  from  their  balcony ; 
so  it  was  natural  for  Dennis  and  Tibbald,  and 
Welsted  and  Cibber,  and  the  worn  and  hungry 
pressmen  in  the  crowd  below,  to  howl  at  him 
and  assail  him.  And  Pope  was  more  savage 
to  Grub  Street  than  Grub  Street  was  to  Pope. 
The  thong  with  which  he  lashed  them  was 
dreadful ; he  fired  upon  that  howling  crew 
such  shafts  of  flame  and  poison,  he  slew 
and  wounded  so  fiercely,  that  in  reading  the 
u Dunciad  ” and  the  prose  lampoons  of  Pope, 
(one  feels  disposed  to  side  against  the  ruthless 


200 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


little  tyrant,  at  least  to  pity  those  wretched 
folks  on  whom  he  was  so  unmerciful.  It  was 
Pope,  and  Swift  to  aid  him,  who  established 
among  us  the  Grub  Street  tradition.  He 
revels  in  base  descriptions  of  poor  men’s 
want ; he  gloats  over  poor  Dennis’s  garret,  and 
flannel  nightcap  and  red  stockings ; he  gives 
instructions  how  to  find  Curb’s  authors,  the 
historian  at  the  tallow-chandler’s  under  the 
blind  arch  in  Petty  France,  the  two  translators 
in  bed  together,  the  poet  in  the  cock-loft  in 
Budge  Row,  whose  landlady  keeps  the  ladder. 
It  was  Pope,  I fear,  who  contributed,  more 
than  any  man  who  ever  lived,  to  depreciate 
the  literary  calling.  It  was  not  an  unprosper- 
ous  one  before  that  time,  as  we  have  seen  ; at 
least  there  were  great  prizes  in  the  profession 
which  had  made  Addison  a Minister,  and 
Prior  an  Ambassador,  and  Steele  a Commis- 
sioner, and  Swift  all  but  a Bishop.  The  pro- 
fession of  letters  was  ruined  by  that  libel  of 
the  u Dunciad.”  If  authors  were  wretched 
and  poor  before,  if  some  of  them  lived  in  hay- 
lofts, of  which  their  landladies  kept  the  lad-“ 
ders,  at  least  nobody  came  to  disturb  them  in 
their  straw  ; if  three  of  them  had  but  one  coat 
between  them,  the  two  remained  invisible  in 
the  garret,  the  third,  at  any  rate,  appeared 
decently  at  the  coffee-house  and  paid  his  two- 
pence like  a gentleman.  It  was  Pope  that 
dragged  into  light  all  this  poverty  and  mean- 
ness, and  held  up  those  wretched  shifts  and 
rags  to  public  ridicule.  It  was  Pope  that  has 
made  generations  of  the  reading  world  (de- 


PRIOR,  GAY , AND  POPE . 


201 


lighted  with  the  mischief,  as  who  would  not  be 
that  reads  it?)  believe  that  author  and  wretch, 
author  and  rags,  author  and  dirt,  author  and 
drink,  gin,  co wheel,  tripe,  poverty,  duns, 
bailiffs,  squalling  children  and  clamorous  land- 
ladies, were  always  associated  together.  The 
condition  of  authorship  began  to  fall  from  the 
days  of  the  u Dunciad  ” : and  I believe  in  my 
heart  that  much  of  that  obloquy  which  has 
since  pursued  our  calling  was  occasioned  by 
Pope’s  libels  and  wicked  wit.  Everybody 
read  those.  Everybody  was  familiarized  with 
the  idea  of  the  poor  devil,  the  author.  The 
manner  is  so  captivating  that  young  authors 
practise  it,  and  begin  their  career  with  satire. 
It  is  so  easy  to  write,  and  so  pleasant  to  read  ! 
to  fire  a shot  that  makes  a giant  wince,  per- 
haps; and  fancy  one’s  .self  his  conqueror.  It 
is  easy  to  shcot — but  not  as  Pope  did.  The 
shafts  of  his  satire  rise  sublimely  : no  poet’s 
verse  ever  mounted  higher  than  that  wonder- 
ful flight  with  w hich  the  u Dunciad  ” con- 
cludes : — * 

“ She  comes,  she  comes!  the  sable  throne  behold 
Of  Night  primeval  and  of  Chaos  old  ; 

Before  her,  Fancy’s  gilded  clouds  decay, 

And  all  its  varying  rainbows  die  away; 

Wit  shoots  in  vain  its  momentary  fires, 

The  meteor  drops,  and  in  a dash  expires. 

As,  one  by  one,  at  dread  Medea’s  strain 
The  sick’ning stars  fade  off  the  ethereal  plain; 

As  Argus’  eyes,  by  Hermes’  wand  oppress’d, 

Closed,  one  by  one,  to  everlasting  rest ; — 

Thus,  at  her  fell  approach  and  secret  might, 

Art  after  Art  goes  out,  and  all  is  night. 


*“He  (Johnson)  repeated  to  us,  in  his  forcible  melodious 
manner,  the  concluding  lines  of  the  ‘ Dunciad.’  ” — Boswell. 


202 


ENGLISH  HUMOBISTS. 


See  skulking  Truth  to  her  old  cavern  fled, 
Mountains  of  casuistry  heaped  o’er  her  head ; 
Philosophy,  that  leaned  on  Heaven  before, 

Shrinks  to  her  second  cause  and  is  no  more. 
Religion,  blushiner,  veils  her  sacred  fires, 

And,  unawares,  Morality  expiivs. 

Not  public  flame,  nor  private,  dares  to  shine, 

Nor  human  spark  is  left,  nor  glimpse  divine. 

Lo!  thy  dread  empire,  Chao* *,  is  restored, 

Light  dies  before  thy  uncreating  word; 

Thy  hand,  great  Anarch,  lets  the  curtain  fall, 

And  universal  darkness  buries  all.”  * 

In  these  astonishing  lines  Pope  reaches,  I 
think,  to  the  very  greatest  height  which  his 
sublime  art  has  attained,  and  shows  himself 
the  ecjual  of  all  poets  of  all  times.  It  is  the 
brightest  ardor,  the  loftiest  assertion  of  truth, 
the  most  generous  wisdom  illustrated  by  the 
noblest  poetic  figure,  and  spoken  in  words  the 
aptest,  grandest,  and  most  harmonious  It  is 
heroic  courage  speaking : a splendid  declara- 
tion of  righteous  wrath  and  war.  It  is  the 
gage  flung  down,  and  the  silver  trumpet  ring- 
ing defiance  to  falsehood  and  tyranny,  deceit, 
dulness,  superstition.  It  is  Truth,  the  cham- 
pion, shining  and  intrepid,  and  fronting  the 
great  world-tyrant  with  armies  of  slaves  at  his 
back.  It  is  a wonderful  and  victorious  single- 
combat, in  that  great  battle,  which  has  always 
been  waging  since  society  began. 

In  speaking  of  a work  of  consummate  art 
one  does  not  try  to  show  what  it  actually  is, 
for  that  were  vain ; but  what  is  it  like,  and 


* “ Mr.  Langton  informed  me  that  he  once  related  to  Johnson 
(on  the  authority  of  Spence),  that  Pope  himself  admired  these 
lines  so  much  that  when  he  repeated  them  his  voice  faltered. 

* And  well  it  might,  sir,’  said  Johnson,  ‘ for  they  are  noble 
lines.’”  — J,  Boswell,  Junior. 


PBlOB , GAY i .4AD  POPE. 


203 


what  are  the  sensations  produced  in  the  mind 
of  him  who  views  it.  And  in  considering 
Pope’s  admirable  career,  I am  forced  into 
similitudes  drawn  from  other  courage  and 
greatness,  and  into  comparing  him  with  those 
who  achieved  triumphs  in  actual  war.  I think 
of  the  works  of  young  Pope  as  I do  of  the 
actions  of  young  Buonaparte  or  young  Nelson. 
In  their  common  life  you  will  find  frailties 
and  meannesses,  as  great  as  the  vices  and 
follies  of  the  meanest  men.  But  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  great  occasion,  the  great  soul 
flashes  out,  and  conquers  transcendent.  In 
thinking  of  the  splendor  of  Pope’s  young  vic- 
tories, of  his  merit,  unequalled  as  his  renown, 
I hail  and  salute  the  achieving  genius,  and  do 
homage  to  the  pen  of  a hero. 


HOGARTH,  SMOLLETT,  AND 
FIELDING. 


I suppose,  as  long  as  novels  last  and  au- 
thors aim  at  interesting  their  public,  there 
must  always  be  in  the  story  a virtuous  and 
gallant  hero,  a wicked  monster  his  opposite, 
and  a pretty  girl  who  finds  a champion ; 
bravery  and  virtue  conquer  beauty  ; and  vice, 
after  seeming  to  triumph  through  a certain 
number  of  pages,  is  sure  to  be  discomfited  in 
the  last  volume,  when  justice  overtakes  him 
and  honest  folks  come  by  their  own.  There 
never  was  perhaps  a greatly  popular  story  but 
this  simple  plot  was  carried  through  it : mere 
satiric  wit  is  addressed  to  a class  of  readers 
and  thinkers  quite  different  to  those  simple 
souls  who  laugh  and  weep  over  the  novel.  I 
fancy  very  few  ladies,  indeed,  for  instance, 
could  be  brought  to  like  u Gulliver”  heartily, 
and  (putting  the  coarseness  and  difference  of 
manners  out  of  the  question)  to  relish  the 
wonderful  satire  of  “ Jonathan  Wild.”  In 
that  strange  apologue,  the  author  takes  for 
a hero  the  greatest  rascal,  coward,  traitor, 
tyrant,  hypocrite,  that  his  wit  and  experience, 
both  large  in  this  matter,  could  enable  him  to 
devise  or  depict ; he  accompanies  this  villain 
through  all  the  actions  of  his  life,  with  a grin- 
ning deference  and  a wonderful  mock  respect  : 
and  does  n’t  leave  him,  till  he  is  dangling  at 


HOGARTH \ SMOLLETT , AND  FIELDING.  205 


the  gallows,  when  the  satirist  makes  him  a low 
bow  and  wishes  the  scoundrel  good  day. 

It  was  not  by  satire  of  this  sort,  or  by  scorn 
and  contempt,  that  Hogarth  achieved  his  vast 
popularity  and  acquired  his  reputation.*  His 
art  is  quite  simple,!  he  speaks  popular  para- 
bles to  interest  simple  hearts,  and  to  inspire 
them  with  pleasure  or  pity  or  warning  and  ter- 
ror. Not  one  of  his  tales  but  is  as  easy  as 
44  Goody  Twoshoes”;  it  is  the  moral  of 
Tommy  was  a naughty  boy  and  the  master 
flogged  him,  and  Jacky  was  a good  boy  and 
had  plum-cake,  which  pervades  the  whole  work 


* Coleridge  speaks  of  the  “beautiful  female  faces”  in 
Hogarth’s  pictures,  “in  whom,”  he  says,  “ the  satirist  never 
extinguished  that  love  of  beauty  which  belonged  to  him  as  a 
poet.” — The  Friend. 

f (<  I was  pleased  with  the  reply  of  a gentleman,  who,  being 
asked  which  book  he  esteemed  most  in  his  library,  answered, 

‘ Shakespeare  ’ : being  asked  which  he  esteemed  next  best, 
replied,  ‘Hogarth.’  His  graphic  representations  are  indeed 
books:  they  have  the  teeming,  fruitful,  suggestive  meaning  of 
words.  Other  pictures  we  look  at  — his  prints  we  read.  . . . 

“ The  quantity  of  thought  which  Hogarth  crowds  into  every 
picture  would  almost  unvulgarize  every  subject  which  he  might 
choose.  . • . 

“ I say  not  that  all  the  ridiculous  subjects  of  Hogarth  have 
necessarily  something  in  them  to  make  us  like  them;  some  are 
indifferent  to  us,  some  in  their  nature  repulsive,  and  only  made 
interesting  by  the  wonderful  skill  and  truth  to  nature  in  the 
painter;  but  I contend  that  there  is  in  most  of  them  that  sprink- 
ling of  the  better  nature,  which,  like  holy  water,  chases  away 
and  disperses  the  contagion  of  the  bad.  They  have  this  in 
them,  besides,  that  they  bring  us  acquainted  with  the  every-day 
human  face, — they  give  us  skill  to  detect  those  gradations  of 
sense  and  virtue  (which  escape  the  careless  or  fastidious 
observer ) in  the  circumstances  of  the  world  about  us ; and 
prevent  that  disgust  at  common  life,  that  tcedium  quotidi- 
anarum  formnrum , which  an  unrestricted  passion  for  ideal 
forms  and  beauties  is  in  danger  of  producing.  In  this,  as  in 
many  other  things,  they  are  analogous  to  the  best  novels  of 
Smollett  and  Fielding.”  — Charles  Lamb. 

“It  has  been  observed  that  Hogarth’s  pictures  are  exceed- 
ingly unlike  any  other  representations  of  the  same  kind  of  sub- 
jects : that  they  form  a class,  and  have  a character  peculiar  to 


206 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


of  the  homely  and  famous  English  moralist. 
And  if  the  moral  is  written  in  rather  too  Jarge 
letters  after  the  fable,  we  must  remember  how 
simple  the  scholars  and  schoolmaster  both 
were,  and  like  neither  the  less  because  they 
are  so  artless  and  honest.  u It  was  a maxim  of 
Dr.  Harrison’s, ” Fielding  says,  in  i4  Amelia,”— 
speaking  of  the  benevolent  divine  and  philoso- 
pher who  represents  the  good  principle  in  that 
novel,  — u that  no  man  can  descend  below  him- 
self, in  doing  any  act  which  may  contribute  to 
protect  an  innocent  person,  or  to  bring  a rogue 
to  the  gallows."  The  moralists  of  that  age  had 
no  compunction,  you  see  ; they  had  not  begun 


themselves.  It  may  be  worth  while  to  consider  in  what  this 
general  distinction  consists. 

“In  the  first  place,  they  are,  in  the  strictest  sense,  historical 
pictures;  and  if  what  Fielding  says  be  true,  that  his  novel  of 
‘Tom  Jones ’ ought  to  be  regarded  as  an  epic  prose-poem, 
because  it  contained  a regular  development  of  fable,  manners, 
character,  and  passion,  the  compositions  of  Hogarth  w ill,  in 
like  manner,  be  found  to  have  a higher  claim  to  the  title  of  epic 
pictures  than  many  which  have  of  late  arrogated  that  denomi- 
nation to  themselves.  When  we  say  that  Hogarth  treated  his 
subject  historically,  we  mean  that  his  works  represent  the 
manners  and  humors  of  mankind  in  action,  and  their  characters 
by  varied  expression.  Everything  in  his  pictures  has  life  and 
motion  in  it.  Not  only  does  the  business  of  the  scene  never 
stand  still,  but  every  feature  and  muscle  is  put  into  full  play; 
the  exact  feeling  of  the  moment  is  brought  out,  and  carried  ta 
its  utmost  height,  and  then  instantly  seized  and  stamped  on  the 
canvas  forever.  The  expression  is  always  taken  en  passant , in 
a state  of  progress  or  change,  and,  as  it  were,  at  the  salient 
point.  . . . His  figures  are  not  like  the  background  on  which 
they  are  painted  : even  the  pictures  on  the  wall  have  a peculiar 
look  of  their  own.  Again,  with  the  rapidity,  variety,  and  scope 
of  history,  Hogarth’s  heads  have  all  the  reality  and  correctness 
of  portraits.  He  gives  the  extremes  of  character  and  expres- 
sion, but  he  gives  them  with  perfect  truth  and  accuracy.  This 
is,  in  fact,  what  distinguishes  his  compositions  from  all  others 
of  the  same  kind,  that  they  are  equally  remote  from  caricature, 
and  from  mere  still  life.  . . . His  faces  go  to  the  very  verge  of 
caricature,  and  yet  never  (we  believe  in  any  single  instance) 
go  beyond  it,”  — Hazlitt. 


HOGARTH,  SMOLLETT,  AND  FIELDING . 20? 

to  be  sceptical  about  the  theory  of  punishment, 
and  thought  that  the  hanging  of  a thief  was  a 
spectacle  for  edification.  Masters  sent  their 
apprentices,  fathers  took  their  children,  to  see 
Jack  Sheppard  or  Jonathan  Wild  hanged,  and 
it  was  as  undoubting  subscribers  to  this  moral 
law,  that  Fielding  wrote  and  Hogarth  painted. 
Except  in  one  instance,  where,  in  the  mad- 
house scene  in  the  “ Rake’s  Progress,”  the 
girl  whom  he  has  ruined  is  represented  as  still 
tending  and  weeping  over  him  in  his  insanity, 
a glimpse  of  pity  for  his  rogues  never  seems 
to  enter  honest  Hogarth’s  mind.  There ’s  not 
the  slightest  doubt  in  the  breast  of  the  jolly 
Draco. 

The  famous  set  of  pictures  called  u Marriage 
a la  Mode,”  and  which  are  now  exhibited  in 
the  National  Gallery  in  London,  contains  the 
most  important  and  highly  wrought  of  the 
Hogarth  comedies.  The  care  and  method 
with  which  the  moral  grounds  of  these  pictures 
are  laid  is  as  remarkable  as  the  wit  and  skill  of 
the  observing  and  dexterous  artist.  He  has 
to  describe  the  negotiations  for  a marriage 
pending  between  the  daughter  of  a rich  citizen 
Alderman  and  young  Lord  Viscount  Squan- 
derfield,  the  dissipated  son  of  a gouty  old 
Earl.  Pride  and  pomposity  appear  in  every 
accessory  surrounding  the  Earl.  He  sits  in 
gold-lace  and  velvet  — as  how  should  such  an 
Earl  wear  anything  but  velvet  and  gold-lace  ? 
His  coronet  is  everywhere  : on  his  footstool, 
on  which  reposes  one  gouty  toe  turned  out ; 
on  the  sconces  and  looking-glasses  ; on  the 


208 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


clogs ; on  his  lordship’s  very  crutches  ; on  his 
great  chair  of  state  and  the  great  baldaquin 
behind  him ; under  which  he  sits  pointing 
majestically  to  his  pedigree,  which  shows  that 
his  race  is  sprung  fiom  the  loins  of  William 
the  Conqueror,  and  confronting  the  old  Aider- 
man  from  the  City,  who  has  mounted  his 
sword  for  the  occasion,  and  wears  his  Alder- 
man’s chain,  and  has  brought  a bag  full  of 
money,  mortgage-deeds  and  thousand-pound 
notes,  for  the  arrangement  of  the  transaction 
pending  between  them.  Whilst  the  steward 
(a  Methodist  — therefore  a hypocrite  and 
cheat : for  Hogarth  scorned  a Papist  and  a 
Dissenter)  is  negotiating  between  the  old 
couple,  their  children  sit  together,  united  but 
apart.  My  lord  is  admiring  his  countenance 
in  the  glass,  while  his  bride  is  twiddling  her 
marriage  ring  on  her  pocket-handkerchief,  and 
listening  with  rueful  countenance  to  Counsellor 
Silvertongue,  who  has  been  drawing  the  settle- 
ments. The  girl  is  pretty,  but  the  painter, 
with  a curious  watchfulness,  has  taken  care  to 
give  her  a likeness  to  her  father ; as  in  the 
young  Viscount’s  face  you  see  a resemblance 
to  the  Earl,  his  noble  sire.  The  sense  of  the 
coronet  pervades  the  picture,  as  it  is  supposed 
to  do  the  mind  of  its  W(  arer.  The  pictures 
round  the  room  are  sly  hints  indicating  the 
situation  of  the  parties  about  to  marry.  A 
martyr  is  led  to  the  fire  ; Andromeda  is  offered 
to  sacrifice  ; Judith  is  going  to  slay  Holof ernes. 
There  is  the  ancestor  of  the  house  (in  the  pic- 
ture it  is  the  Earl  himself  as  a young  man), 


HOGARTH \ SMOLLETT , AND  FIELDING.  209 

with  a comet  over  his  head,  indicating  that  the 
career  of  the  family  is  to  be  brilliant  and  brief. 
In  the  second  picture,  the  old  lord  must  be 
dead,  for  Madam  has  now  the  Countess’s  coro- 
net over  her  bed  and  toilet-glass,  and  sits 
listening  to  that  dangerous  Counsellor  Silver- 
tongue,  whose  portrait  now  actually  hangs  up 
in  Her  room,  whilst  the  counsellor  takes  his 
ease  on  the  sofa  by  her  side,  evidently  the 
familiar  of  the  house,  and  the  confidant  of  the 
mistress.  My  lord  takes  his  pleasure  else- 
where than  at  home,  whither  he  returns  jaded 
and  tipsy  from  the  “Rose,”  to  find  his  wife 
yawning  in  her  drawing-room,  her  whist-party 
over,  and  the  daylight  streaming  in  ; or  he 
amuses  himself  with  the  very  worst  company 
abroad,  whilst  his  wife  sits  at  home  listening 
to  foreign  singers,  or  wastes  her  money  at 
auctions,  or,  worse  still,  seeks  amusement  at 
masquerades.  The  dismal  end  is  known. 
My  lord  draws  upon  the  counsellor,  who  kills 
him,  and  is  apprehended  whilst  endeavoring  to 
escape.  My  lady  goes  back  perforce  to  the 
Alderman  in  the  City,  and  faints  upon  reading 
Counsellor  Silvertongue's  d}fing  speech  at  Ty- 
burn, where  the  counsellor  has  been  executed 
for  sending  his  lordship  out  of  the  world. 
Moral : — Don’t  listen  to  evil  silver-tongued 
counsellors  : don’t  marry  a man  for  his  rank, 
or  a woman  for  her  money : don’t  frequent 
foolish  auctions  and  masquerade  balls  unknown 
to  your  husband : don’t  have  wicked  com- 
panions abroad  and  neglect  your  wife,  other- 
wise you  will  be  run  through  the  body,  and 
14 


210 


ENGLISH  HUMOJUSTS . 


ruin  will  ensue,  and  disgrace,  and  Tyburn. 
The  people  are  all  naughty,  and  Bogey  carries 
them  all  off.  In  the  u Rake’s  Progress  ” a 
loose  life  is  ended  by  a similar  sad  catastrophe. 
It  is  the  spendthrift  coming  into  possession  of 
the  wealth  of  the  paternal  miser  ; the  prodigal 
surrounded  by  flatterers,  and  wasting  his  sub- 
stance  on  the  very  worst  company  ; tire-  oauiffs, 
the  gambling-house,  and  Bedlam  for  an  end. 
In  the  famous  story  of  “Industry  and  Idle- 
ness/' the  moral  is  pointed  in  a manner  simi- 
larly clear.  Fair-haired  Frank  Goodchild 
smiles  at  his  work,  whilst  naughty  Tom  Idle 
snores  over  his  loom.  Frank  reads  the  edify- 
ing ballads  of  “ Whittington”  and  the  u Lon- 
don 'Prentice,”  whilst  that  reprobate  Tom 
Idle  prefers  “ Moll  Flanders,”  and  drinks 
hugely  of  beer.  Frank  goes  to  church  of  a 
Sunday,  and  warbles  hymns  from  the  gallery  ; 
while  Tom  lies  on  a tombstone  outside  play- 
ing at  “ halfpenny-undcr-the-hat  ” with  street 
blackguards,  and  is  deservedly  caned  b}^  the 
beadle.  Frank  is  made  overseer  of  the  busi- 
ness, whilst  Tom  is  sent  to  sea.  Frank  is 
taken  into  partnership  and  marries  his  master's 
daughter,  sends  out  broken  victuals  to  the 
poor,  and  listens  in  his  nightcap  and  gown, 
with  the  lovely  Mrs.  Goodchild  by  his  side, 
to  the  nuptial  music  of  the  City  bands  and 
the  marrow-bones  and  cleavers ; whilst  idle 
Tom,  returned  from  sea,  shudders  in  a gar- 
ret lest  the  officers  are  coming  to  take  him 
for  picking  pockets.  The  Worshipful  Fran- 
cis Goodchild,  Esq.,  becomes  Sheriff  of  Lon- 


HOGARTH,  SMOLLETT , AND  FIELDING . 211 


don,  and  partakes  of  the  most  splendid  din- 
ners which  money  can  purchase  or  Alderman 
devour ; whilst  poor  Tom  is  taken  up  in  a 
night-cellar,  with  that  one-eyed  and  disrepu- 
table accomplice  who  first  taught  him  to  play 
chuck-farthing  on  a Sunday.  What  happens 
next?  Tom  is  brought  up  before  the  justice 
of  liis  country,  in  the  person  of  Mr.  Aider- 
man  Goodchild,  who  weeps  as  he  recognizes 
his  old  brother  ’prentice,  as  Tom’s  one-eyed 
friend  peaches  on  him,  and  the  clerk  makes 
out  the  poor  rogue’s  ticket  for  Newgate. 
Then  the  end  comes.  Tom  goes  to  Tyburn  in 
a cart  with  a coffin  in  it ; whilst  the  Right 
Honorable  Francis  Goodchild,  Lord  Mayor  of 
London,  proceeds  to  his  Mansion  House,  in 
his  gilt  coach  with  four  footmen  and  a sword- 
bearer,  whilst  the  Companies  of  London  march 
in  the  august  procession,  whilst  the  trainbands 
of  the  City  fire  their  pieces  and  get  drunk  in 
his  honor;  and  — O crowning  delight  and 
glory  of  all  — whilst  his  Majesty  the  King 
looks  out  from  his  royal  balcony,  with  his  rib- 
bon on  his  breast,  and  his  Queen  and  his  star 
by  his  side,  at  the  corner  house  of  St.  Paul’s 
Churchyard. 

How  the  times  have  changed ! The  new 
Post  Office  now  not  disadvantageous^  oc- 
cupies that  spot  where  the  scaffolding  is  in 
the  picture,  where  the  tipsy1'  trainband-man  is 
lurching  against  the  post,  with  his  wig  over  one 
eye,  and  the  ’prentice-bov  is  trying  to  kiss 
the  pretty  girl  in  the  gallery.  Passed  away 
’prentice-bov  and  pretty  girl ! Passed  away 


212 


ENGLISH  HUM  OB  I STS. 


tipsy  trainband-man  with  wig  and  bandolier ! 
On  the  spot  where  Tom  Idle  (for  whom  1 
have  an  unaffected  pity)  made  his  exit  from 
this  wicked  world,  and  where  you  see  the 
hangman  smoking  his  pipe  as  he  reclines  on 
the  gibbet  and  views  the  hills  of  Harrow  or 
Hampstead  beyond,  a splendid  marble  arch,  a 
vast  and  modern  city  — clean,  airy,  painted 
drab,  populous  with  nursery-maids  and  chil- 
dren, the  abode  of  wealth  and  comfort  — the 
elegant,  the  prosperous,  the  polite  Tyburnia 
rises,  the  most  respectable  district  in  the 
habitable  globe. 

In  thnt  last  plate  of  the  London  Appren- 
tices, in  which  the  apotheosis  of  the  Right 
Honorable  Francis  Goodchild  is  drawn,  a rag- 
ged fellow  is  represented  in  the  corner  of  the 
simple,  kindly  piece,  offering  for  sale  a broad- 
side, purporting  to  contain  an  account  of  the 
appearance  of  the  ghost  of  Tom  Idle,  exe- 
cuted at  Tyburn.  Could  Tom’s  ghost  have 
made  its  appearance  in  1847,  and  not  in  1747, 
what  changes  would  have  been  remarked  by 
that  astonished  escaped  criminal ! Over  that 
road  which  the  hangman  used  to  travel  con- 
stantly, and  the  Oxford  stage  twice  a week,  go 
ten  thousand  carriages  every  day  : over  yonder 
road,  by  which  Dick  Turpin  fled  to  Windsor, 
and  Squire  Western  journeyed  into  town,  when 
he  came  to  take  up  his  quarters  at  the  u Her- 
cules Pillars  ” on  the  outskirts  of  London, 
what  a rush  of  civilization  and  order  flows 
now ! What  armies  of  gentlemen  with  um- 
brellas march  to  banks,  and  chambers,  and 


HOGARTH,  SMOLLETT , AMD  FIELDING . 213 


counting-houses  ! What  regiments  of  nursery- 
maids and  pretty  infantry ; what  peaceful  pro- 
cessions of  policemen,  what  light  broughams 
a ndwhat  gay  carriages,  what  swarms  of  bus}^ 
apprentices  and  artificers,  riding  on  omnibus- 
roofs,  pass  daily  and  hourly ! Tom  Idle’s 
times  are  quite  changed : many  of  the  institu- 
tions gone  into  disuse  which  were  admired  in 
his  day.  There ’s  more  pity  and  kindness  and 
a better  chance  for  poor  Tom’s  successors  now 
than  at  that  simpler  period  when  Fielding 
hanged  him  and  Hogarth  drew  him. 

To  the  student  of  history,  these  admirable 
works  must  be  invaluable,  as  they  give  us  the 
most  complete  and  truthful  picture  of  the  man- 
ners, and  even  the  thoughts,  of  the  past  cen- 
tury. We  look,  and  see  pass  before  us  the 
England  of  a hundred  years  ago  — the  peer  in 
his  drawing-room,  the  lady  of  fashion  in  her 
apartment,  foreign  singers  surrounding  her, 
and  the  chamber  filled  with  gewgaws  in  the 
mode  of  that  day  ; the  church,  with  its  quaint 
florid  architecture  and  singing  congregation  ; 
the  parson  with  his  great  wig,  and  the  beadle 
with  his  cane  : all  these  are  represented  before 
us,  and  we  are  sure  of  the  truth  of  the  por- 
trait. We  see  how  the  Lord  Mayor  dines  in 
state  ; how  the  prodig  »1  drinks  and  sports  at 
the  bagnio ; how  the  poor  girl  beats  hemp  in 
Bridewell ; how  the  thief  divides  his  booty  and 
drinks  his  punch  at  the  night-cellar,  and  how 
he  finishes  his  career  at  the  gibbet.  We  may 
depend  upon  the  perfect  accuracy  of  these 
strange  and  varied  portraits  of  the  by-gone 


214 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


generation : we  see  one  of  Walpole’s  Members 
of  Parliament  chaired  after  his  election,  and 
the  lieges  celebrating  the  event,  and  drinking 
confusion  to  the  Pretender : we  see  the  grena- 
diers and  trainbands  of  the  City  marching  out 
to  meet  the  enemy ; and  have  before  us,  with 
sword  and  firelock,  and  u White  Hanoverian 
Horse”  embroidered  on  the  cap,  the  very 
figures  of  the  men  who  ran  away  with  Johnny 
Cope,  and  who  conquered  at  Culloden.  The 
Yorkshire  wagon  rolls  into  the  inn  yard  ; the 
country  parson,  in  his  jack-boots,  and  his 
bands  and  short  cassock,  comes  trotting  into 
town,  and  we  fancy  it  is  Parson  Adams,  with 
his  sermons  in  his  pocket.  The  Salisbury  fly 
sets  forth  from  the  old  “ Angel ” — -you  see 
the  passengers  entering  the  great  heavy  vehi- 
cle, up  the  wooden  steps,  their  hats  tied  down 
with  handkerchiefs  over  their  faces,  and  under 
their  arms,  sword,  hanger,  and  case-bottle  ; 
the  landlady  — apoplectic  with  the  liquors  in 
her  own  bar  — is  tugging  at  the  bell;  the 
hunchbacked  postilion  — he  may  have  ridden 
the  leaders  to  Humphrey  Clinker  — is  begging 
a gratuity  ; the  miser  is  grumbling  at  the  bill ; 
Jack  of  the  44  Centurion  ” lies  on  the  top  of 
the  clumsy  vehicle,  with  a soldier  bv  his  side  — 
it  may  be  Smollett’s  Jack  Hatchway  — it  has 
a likeness  to  Lismahago.  You  see  the  subur- 
ban fair  and  the  strolling  company  of  actors  ; 
the  pretty  milkmaid  singing  under  the  win- 
dows of  the  enraged  French  musician  : it  is 
such  a girl  as  Steele  charmingly  described  in 
the  Guardian,  a few  years  before  this  date, 


HOGABTII ; SMOLLETT , AMD  FIELDING.  215 


singing,  under  Mr.  Ironside’s  window  in  Shire 
Lane,  her  pleasant  carol  of  a May  morning. 
You  see  noblemen  and  blacklegs  bawling  and 
betting  in  the  Cockpit : you  see  Garrick  as  he 
was  arrayed  in  u King  Richard”;  Macheath 
and  Polly  in  the  dresses  which  they  wore 
when  they  charmed  our  ancestors,  and  when 
noblemen  in  blue  ribbons  sat  on  the  stage  and 
listened  to  their  delightful  music.  You  see 
the  ragged  French  soldiery,  in  their  white 
coats  and  cockades,  at  Calais  Gate  : they  are 
of  the  regiment,  very  likely,  which  friend 
Roderick  Random  joined  before  he  was  res- 
cued by  his  preserver  Monsieur  de  Strap  with 
whom  he  fought  on  the  famous  day  of  Det- 
tingen.  You  see  the  judges  on  the  bench; 
the  audience  laughing  in  the  pit ; the  student 
in  the  Oxford  theatre ; the  citizen  on  his 
country  walk ; you  see  Broughton  the  boxer, 
Sarah  Malcolm  the  murderess,  Simon  Lovat 
the  traitor,  John  Wilkes  the  demagogue,  leer- 
ing at  you  with  that  squint  which  has  become 
historical,  and  that  face  which,  ugly  as  it  was, 
he  said  he  could  make  as  captivating  to 
woman  as  the  countenance  of  the  handsomest 
beau  in  town.  All  these  sights  and  people 
are  with  you.  After  looking  in  the  “Rake’s 
Progress  ” at  Hogarth’s  picture  of  St.  James’s 
Palace  Gate,  }Tou  may  people  the  street,  but 
little  altered  within  these  hundred  years,  with 
the  gilded  carriages  and  thronging  chairmen 
that  bore  the  courtiers  your  ancestors  to  Queen 
Caroline’s  drawing-room  more  than  a hundred 
years  ago. 


216 


ENGLISH  HUMOBISTS. 


What  manner  of  man  * was  he  who  executed 
these  portraits — so  various,  so  faithful,  and 
so  admirable?  In  the  National  Collection  of 
Pictures  most  of  us  have  seen  the  best  and 


* Hogarth  (whose  family  name  was  Ilogart)  was  the  grand- 
son  of  a Westmoreland  yeoman.  His  father  came  to  London, 
and  was  an  author  and  schoolmaster.  William  was  born  in 
1698  (according  to  the  most  probable  conjecture)  in  the  parish 
of  St.  Martin  Ludgate.  He  was  early  apprenticed  to  an  en- 
graver of  arms  on  plate.  The  following  touches  are  from  his 
“ Anecdotes  of  Himself  **  (edition  of  1833)  : — 

“ As  I had  naturally  a good  eye,  and  a fondness  for  drawing, 
shows  of  all  sorts  gave  me  uncommon  pleasure  when  an  infant; 
and  mimicry,  common  to  all  children,  was  remarkable  in  me. 
An  early  access  to  a neighboring  painter  drew  my  attention 
from  play;  and  I was,  at  every  possible  opportunity,  employed 
in  making  drawings.  I picked  up  an  acquaintance  of  the  same 
turn,  and  soon  learnt  to  draw  the  alphabet  with  great  correct- 
ness. My  exercises,  when  at  school,  were  more  remarkable  for 
the  ornaments  which  adorned  them,  than  for  the  exercise  itself. 
In  the  former,  I soon  found  that  blockheads  with  better  memo- 
ries could  much  surpass  me;  but  for  the  latter  I was  particu- 
larly distinguished.  . . . 

“ I thought  it  still  more  unlikely  that  by  pursuing  the  com- 
mon method,  and  copying  old  drawings,  I could  ever  attain  the 
power  of  making  new  designs,  which  was  my  first  and  greatest 
ambition.  I therefore  endeavored  to  habituate  myself  to  the 
exercise  of  a sort  of  technical  memory;  and  by  repeating  in  my 
own  mind  the  parts  of  which  objects  were  composed,  I could 
by  degrees  combine  and  put  them  down  with  my  pencil.  Thus, 
with  all  the  drawbacks  which  resulted  from  the  circumstances 
I have  mentioned,  I had  one  material  advantage  over  my  com- 
petitors, viz.,  the  early  habit  I thus  acquired  of  retaining  in  my 
mind’s  eye,  without  coldly  copying  it  on  the  spot,  whatever  I 
intended  to  imitate. 

“ The  instant  I became  master  of  my  own  time,  I determined 
to  qualify  myself  for  engraving  on  copper.  In  this  I readily 
got  employment;  and  frontispieces  to  books,  such  as  prints  to 
‘Hudibras,’  in  twelves,  etc.,  soon  brought  me  into  the  way. 

' But  the  tribe  of  booksellers  remained  as  my  father  had  left 
them  . . . which  put  me  upon  publishing  on  my  own  account. 
But  here  again  I had  to  encounter  a monopoly  of  printsellers, 
equally  mean  and  destructive  to  the  ingenious;  for  the  first 
plate  I published,  called  ‘The  Taste  of  the  Town,’  in  which 
the  reigning  follies  were  lashed,  had  no  sooner  begun  to  take  a 
run,  than  1 found  copies  of  it  in  the  print-shops,  vending  at  half 
price,  while  the  original  prints  were  returned  to  me  again,  and 
I was  thus  obliged  to  sell  the  plate  for  whatever  these  pirates 
pleased  to  give  me,  as  there  was  no  place  of  sale  but  at  their 
shops.  Owing  to  this,  and  other  circumstances,  by  engraving, 


HOGARTH , SMOLLETT , ^iVZ>  FIELDING . 217 


most  carefully  finished  series  of  his  comic 
paintings,  and  the  portrait  of  his  own  honest 
face,  of  which  the  bright  blue  eyes  shine  out 
from  the  canvas  and  give  you  an  idea  of  that 


until  I was  near  thirty,  I could  do  little  more  than  maintain 
myself;  but  even  then , I was  a punctual  paymaster . 

“ I then  married,  and  — ” 

[But  William  is  going  too  fast  here.  He  made  a “ stolen 
union,”  on  March  23,  1729,  with  Jane,  daughter  of  Sir  James 
Thornhill,  serjeant-painter.  For  some  time  Sir  James  kept 
his  heart  and  his  purse-strings  close,  but  “ soon  after  became 
both  reconciled  and  generous  to  the  young  couple.”  — Hogarth's 
Works , by  Nichols  and  Steevens,  vol.  i.  p.  44.] 

“ — commenced  painter  of  small  Conversation  Pieces,  from 
twelve  to  fifteen  inches  high.  This,  being  a novelty,  succeeded 
for  a few  years.” 

[About  this  time  Hogarth  had  summer  lodgings  at  South 
Lambeth,  and  did  all  kinds  of  work,  “embellishing”  the 
“Spring  Gardens”  at  “Vauxhall,”  and  the  like.  In  1731,  he 
published  a satirical  plate  against  Pope,  founded  on  the  well- 
known  imputation  against  him  of  his  having  satirized  the  Duke 
of  Chandos,  under  the  name  of  Tim'>n , in  his  poem  on  “ Taste.” 
The  plate  represented  a view  of  Burlington  House,  with  Pope 
whitewashing  it,  and  bespattering  the  Duke  of  Chandos’s  couch. 
Pope  made  no  retort,  aud  has  never  mentioned  Hogarth.] 

“ Before  I had  done  anything  of  much  consequence  in  this 
walk,  I entertained  some  hopes  of  succeeding  in  wThat  the 
puffers  in  books  call  The  Great  Style  of  History  Painting; 
so  that  without  having  had  a stroke  of  this  grand  business 
before,  I quitted  small  portraits  and  familiar  conversations,  and 
with  a smile  at  my  own  temerity,  commenced  history-painter, 
and  on  a great  staircase  at  St.  Bartholomew’s  Hospital,  painted 
two  Scripture  stories,  the  ‘Pool  of  Bethesda’  and  the  ‘Good 
Samaritan,’  with  figures  seven  feet  high.  . . . But  as  religion, 
the  great  promoter  of  this  style  in  other  countries,  rejected  it 
in  England,  I was  unwilling  to  sink  into  a portrait  manufac- 
turer; and  still  ambitious  of  being  singular,  dropped  all  expec- 
tations of  advantage  from  that  source,  and  returned  to  the  pur- 
suit of  my  former  dealings  with  the  public  at  large. 

“As  to  portrait  painting,  the  chief  branch  of  the  art  by 
wThich  a painter  can  procure  himself  a tolerable  livelihood,  and 
the  only  one  by  which  a lover  of  money  can  get  a fortune,  a man 
of  very  moderate  talents  may  have  great  success  in  it,  as  the 
artifice  aud  address  of  a mercer  is  infinitely  more  useful  than  the 
abilities  of  a painter.  By  the  manner  in  w’hich  the  present  race 
of  professors  in  England  conduct  it,  that  also  becomes  still 
life.” 


“ By  this  inundation  of  folly  and  puff  ” ( he  has  been  speak- 
ing of  the  success  of  Vanloot  who  came  over  here  in  1737),  “ I 


218 


ENGLISH  HUMOBISTS . 


keen  and  brave  look  with  which  William 
Hogarth  regarded  the  world.  No  man  was 
ever  less  of  a hero ; you  see  him  before 
you,  and  can  fancy  what  he  was — a jovial, 
honest  London  citizen,  stout  and  sturdy ; a 

must  confess  I was  much  disgusted,  and  determined  to  try  if  by 
any  means  I could  stem  the  torrent,  and,  by  opposing , end  it.  I 
laughed  at  the  pretensions  of  these  quacks  in  coloring, 
ridiculed  their  productions  as  feeble  and  contemptible,  and 
asserted  that  it  required  neither  taste  nor  talents  to  excel  their 
most  popular  performances.  This  interference  excited  much 
enmity,  because,  as  my  opponeKts  told  me,  my  studies  were  in 
another  way.  ‘ You  talk,’  added  they,  ‘ with  ineffable  con- 
tempt of  portrait  painting;  if  it  is  so  easy  a task,  why  do  not 
you  convince  the  world,  by  painting  a portrait  yourself?* 
Provoked  at  this  language,  I,  one  day  at  the  Academy  in  St. 
Martin’s  Lane,  put  the  following  question  : ‘ Supposing  any  man, 
at  this  time,  were  to  paint  a portrait  as  well  as  Vandyke,  would 
it  be  seen  or  ncknowledged,  and  could  the  artist  enjoy  the  benefit 
or  acquire  the  reputation  due  to  his  performance?  ’ 

“ They  asked  me  in  reply,  if  I could  paint  one  as  well;  and 
I frankly  answered,  I believed  I could.  . . . 

“ Of  the  mighty  talents  said  to  be  requisite  for  portrait  paint- 
ing I had  not  the  most  exalted  opinion.” 

Let  us  now  hear  him  on  the  question  of  the  Academy  : — 

“ To  pester  the  three  great  estates  of  the  empire,  about 
twenty  or  thirty  students  drawing  after  a man  ora  horse,  appears, 
as  must  be  acknowledged,  foolish  enough:  but  the  real  motive 
is,  that  a few  bustling  characters,  who  have  access  to  people  of 
rank,  think  they  can  thus  get  a superiority  over  their  brethren, 
be  appointed  to  places,  and  have  salaries,  as  in  France,  for  tell- 
ing a lad  when  a leg  or  an  arm  is  too  long  or  too  short.  . . . 

“ France,  ever  aping  the  magnificence  of  other  nations,  has 
in  its  turn  assumed  a foppish  kind  of  splendor  sufficient  to 
dazzle  the  eyes  of  the  neighboring  states,  and  draw  vast  sums  of 
money  from  this  country.  . . . 

“To  return  to  our  Royal  Academy:  I am  told  that  one  of 
their  leading  objects  will  be,  sending  young  men  abroad  to  study 
the  antique  statues,  for  such  kind  of  studies  may  sometimes  im- 
prove an  exalted  genius,  but  they  will  not  create  it;  and  what- 
ever has  been  the  cause,  this  same  travelling  to  Italy  has,  in 
several  instances  that  I have  seen,  seduced  the  student  from 
nature  and  led  him  to  paint  marble  figures,  in  which  he  has 
availed  himself  of  the  great  works  of  antiquity,  as  a coward  does 
when  he  puts  on  the  armor  of  an  Alexander;  for,  with  similar 
pretensions  and  similar  vanity,  the  painter  supposes  he  shall  be 
adored  as  a second  Raphael  U rhino.” 

We  must  now  hear  him  on  his  “ Sigismunda  ’* : — 

“ As  the  most  violent  and  virulent  abuse  thrown  on  * Sigis- 
munda* was  from  a set  of  miscreants,  with  whom  I am  proud  of 


HOGABTH , SMOLLETT , ^Z>  FIELDING.  219 


heart}7,  plain-spoken  man,*  loving  his  laugh, 
his  friend,  his  glass,  his  roast-beef  of  Old 
England,  and  having  a proper  bourgeois  scorn 
for  French  frogs,  for  mounseers,  and  wooden 

having  been  ever  at  war  — I mean  the  expounders  of  the  myste- 
ries of  old  pictures  — I have  been  sometimes  told  they  were 
beneath  my  notice.  This  is  true  of  them  individually ; but  as 
they  have  access  to  people  of  rank,  who  seem  as  happy  in  being 
cheated  as  these  merchants  are  in  cheating  them,  they  have  a 
power  of  doing  much  mischief  to  a modern  artist.  However 
mean  the  vendor  of  poisons,  the  mineral  is  destructive  : — to  me 
its  operation  was  troublesome  enough.  Ill  nature  spreads  so 
fast  that  now  was  the  time  for  every  little  dog  in  the  profession 
to  bark ! ” 

Next  comes  a characteristic  account  of  his  controversy  with 
Wilkes  and  Churchill : — 

“ The  stagnation  rendered  it  necessary  that  I should  do  some 
timed  thing,  to  recover  my  lost  time,  and  stop  a gap  in  my  in- 
come. This  drew  forth  my  print  of  ‘ The  Times,’  a subject 
which  tended  to  the  restoration  of  peace  and  unanimity,  and  put 
the  opposers  of  these  humane  objects  to  a light  which  gave  great 
offence  to  those  who  were  trying  to  foment  disaffection  in  the 
minds  of  the  populace.  One  of  the  most  notorious  of  them,  till 
now  my  friend  and  flatterer,  attacked  me  in  the  B/oi'th  Briton , 
in  so  infamous  and  malign  a style,  that  he  himself,  when  pushed 
even  by  his  best  friends,  was  driven  to  so  poor  an  excuse  as  to 
say  he  was  drunk  when  he  wrote  it.  . . . 

“This  renowned  patriot’s  portrait,  drawn  like  as  I could  as 
to  features,  and  marked  with  some  indications  of  his  mind,  fully 
answered  my  purpose.  The  ridiculous  was  apparent  to  every 
eye!  A Brutus!  A savior  of  his  country  with  such  an  aspect 
— was  so  arrant  a farce,  that  though  it  gave  rise  to  much  laugh- 
ter in  the  lookers-on,  galled  both  him  and  his  adherents  to  the 
bone.  . . . 

“ Churchill,  Wilkes’s  toad-echo,  put  the  Nort h Briton  attack 
into  verse,  in  an  Epistle  to  Hogarth ; but  as  the  abuse  was  pre 
cisely  the  same,  except  a little  poetical  heightening,  which  goes 
for  nothing,  it  made  no  impression.  . . . However,  having  an 
old  plate  by  me,  with  some  parts  ready,  such  as  the  background 
and  a dog,  I began  to  consider  how  I could  turn  so  much  work 
laid  aside  to  some  account,  and  so  patched  up  a print  of  Master 
Churchill  in  the  character  of  a Bear.  The  pleasure  and  pecun- 
iary advantage  which  I derived  from  these  two  engravings, 
together  with  occasionally  riding  on  horseback,  restored  me  to 
as  much  health  as  can  be  expected  at  my  time  of  life  ” 

* “ It  happened  in  the  early  part  of  ilogarth’s  life,  that  a 
nobleman  who  was  uncommonly  ugly  and  deformed  came  to  sit 
to  him  for  his  picture.  It  was  executed  with  a skill  that  did 
honor  to  the  artist’s  abilities;  but  the  likeness  was  rigidly 
observed,  without  even  the  necessary  attention  to  compliment  or 
flattery.  The  peer,  disgusted  at  this  counterpart  of  himself, 


220 


ENGLISH  HUMOBISTS . 


shoes  in  general,  for  foreign  fiddlers,  foreign 
singers,  and,  above  all,  for  foreign  painters, 
whom  he  held  in  the  most  amusing  contempt. 

It  must  have  been  great  fun  to  hear  him  rage 
against  Correggio  and  the  Caracci ; to  watch 
him  thump  the  table  and  snap  his  fingers,  and 
say,  “ Historical  painters  be  hanged  ! here ’s  the 
man  that  will  paint  against  any  of  them  for  a 
hundred  pounds.  Correggio’s  4 Sigismuncla  ! 5 
Look  at  Bill  Hogarth’s  4 Sigismunda  ’ ; look  at 
my  altar-piece  at  St.  Mary  Redcliffe,  Bris- 
tol ; look  at  my  4 Paul  before  Felix,’  and  see 
whether  I ’m  not  as  good  as  the  best  of  them.”  * 

Posterity  has  not  quite  confirmed  honest 
Hogarth’s  opinion  about  his  talents  for  the 
sublime.  Although  Swift  could  not  see  the 
difference  between  tweedle-dee  and  tweedle- 
dum, posterity  has  not  shared  the  Dean’s  con- 
tempt for  Handel ; the  world  has  discovered 


never  once  thought  of  paying  for  a reflection  that  would  only 
disgust  him  with  his  deformities.  Some  time  was  suffered  to 
elapse  before  the  artist  applied  for  his  money ; but  afterwards 
many  applications  were  made  by  him  vwho  had  then  no  need  of 
a banker)  for  payment,  without  success.  The  painter,  however, 
at  last  hit  upon  an  expedient.  ...  It  was  couched  in  the  fol 
lowing  card  : — 

“ ‘ Mr.  Hogarth’s  dutiful  respects  to  Lord . Finding  that 

he  does  not  mean  to  have  the  picture  which  was  drawn  for  him, 
is  informed  again  of  Mr.  Hogarth’s  necessity  for  the  money. 
If,  therefore,  his  Lordship  does  not  send  for  it,  in  three  days 
it  will  be  disposed  of,  with  the  addition  of  a tail,  and  some 
other  little  appendages,  to  Mr.  Hare,  the  famous  wild-beast 
man : Mr.  Hogarth  having  giveu  that  gentleman  a conditional 
promise  of  it,  for  an  exhibition-picture,  on  his  Lordship’s  re- 
fusal.’ 

“This  intimation  had  the  desired  effect. ’> — Works,  by 
Nichols  and  Steevens,  vol.  i.  p.  25. 

* “Garrick  himself  was  not  more  ductile  to  flattery.  A 
word  in  favor  of  ‘ Sigismunda  ’might  have  commanded  a proof- 
print  or  forced  an  original  print  out  of  our  artist’s  hands.  . . . 

“The  following  authenticated  story  of  our  artist  (furnished 


HOGARTH , SMOLLETT , 4i\TZ)  FIELDING . 221 


a difference  between  tweedle-dee  and  tweedle- 
dum, and  given  a hearty  applause  and  admi- 
ration to  Hogarth,  too,  but  not  exactly  as  a 
painter  of  scriptural  subjects,  or  as  a rival 
of  Correggio.  It  does  not  take  away  from 
one’s  liking  for  the  man,  or  from  the  moral 
of  his  story,  or  the  humor  of  it  — from  one’s 
admiration  for  the  prodigious  merit  of  his 
performances,  to  remember  that  he  persisted 
to  the  last  in  believing  that  the  world  was  in 
a conspiracy  against  him  with  respect  to  his 
talents  as  an  historical  painter,  and  that  a set 
of  miscreants,  as  lie  called  them,  were  em- 
ployed to  run  his  genius  down.  They  say  it 
was  Liston’s  firm  belief,  that  he  was  a great  and 
neglected  tragic  actor  ; they  say  that  every  one 
of  us  believes  in  his  heart,  or  would  like  to  have 
others  believe,  that  he  is  something  which  he  is 
not.  One  of  the  most  notorious  of  the  “ mis- 
creants,” Hogarth  says,  was  Wilkes,  who  as- 
sailed him  in  the  North  Briton;  the  other  was 
Churchill,  who  put  the  North  Briton  attack  into 
heroic  verse,  and  published  his  “Epistle  to 


by  the  late  Mr.  Belchier,  F.  R.  S.,  a surgeon  of  eminence)  will 
also  serve  to  show  how  much  more  easy  it  is  to  detect  ill-placed 
or  hyperbolical  adulation  respecting  others,  than  when  applied 
to  ourselves.  Hogarth,  being  at  dinner  with  the  great  Chesel- 
den  and  some  other  company,  was  told  that  Mr.  John  Freke, 
surgeon  of  St.  Bartholomew’s  Hospital,  a few  evenings  before 
at  Dick’s  Coffee-House,  had  asserted  that  Greene  was  as 
eminent  in  composition  as  Handel.  ‘That  fellow  Freke,’  re- 
plied Hogarth,  ‘ is  always  shooting  his  bolt  absurdly,  one  way 
or  another.  Handel  is  a giant  in  music;  Greene  only  a light 
Florimel  kind  of  a composer.’  ‘Ay,’ says  our  artist’s  inform- 
ant, ‘ but  at  the  same  time  Mr.  Freke  declared  you  were  as  good 
a portrait-painter  as  Vandyke.’  ‘ There  he  was  right,’  adds 
Hogarth,  ‘and  so,  by  G — , I am,  give  me  my  time  and  let  me 
choose  my  subject.’”  — Works,  by  Nichols  and  Stkevens, 
vol.  i.  pp.  236,  237. 


222 


ENGLISH  HUMOBISTS. 


Hogarth.”  Hogarth  replied  by  that  caricature 
of  Wilkes,  in  which  the  patriot  still  figures  be- 
fore us,  with  his  Satanic  grin  and  squint,  and 
by  a caricature  of  Churchill,  in  which  he  is 
represented  as  a bear  with  a staff,  on  which,  lie 
the  first,  lie  the  second  — lie  the  tenth,  are  en- 
graved in  unmistakable  letters.  There  is  very 
little  mistake  about  honest  Hogarth’s  satire  : if 
he  has  to  paint  a man  with  his  throat  cut,  he 
draws  him  with  his  head  almost  off  ; and  he  tried 
to  do  the  same  for  his  enemies  in  this  little  con- 
troversy. 4 ‘Having  an  old  plate  by  me,”  says 
he,  44  with  some  parts  ready,  such  as  the  back- 
ground, and  a dog,  I began  to  consider  how 
I could  turn  so  much  work  laid  aside  to  some 
account,  and  so  patched  up  a print  of  Master 
Churchill,  in  the  character  of  a bear  ; the  pleas- 
ure and  pecuniary  advantage  which  I derived 
from  these  two  engravings,  together  with  occa- 
sionally riding  on  horseback,  restored  me  to  as 
much  health  as  I can  expect  at  my  time  of  life.” 
And  so  he  concludes  his  queer  little  book  of 
Anecdotes  : 44 1 have  gone  through  the  circum- 
stances of  a life  which  till  lately  passed  pretty 
much  to  my  own  satisfaction,  and  I hope  in  no 
respect  injurious  to  any  other  man.  This  I may 
safely  assert,  that  I have  done  my  best  to  make 
those  about  me  tolerably  happy,  and  my  great- 
est enemy  cannot  say  I ever  did  an  intentional 
injury.  What  may  follow,  God  knows.”* 


*Of  Hogarth’s  kindliness  of  disposition,  the  story  of  his 
rescue  of  the  drummer  girl  from  the  ruffian  of  Southwark  Fair 
is  an  illustration : and  in  this  case  virtue  was  not  its  own 
reward,  since  her  pretty  face  afterwards  served  him  for  a model 
in  many  a picture. 


HOGARTH,  SMOLLETT , AND  FIELDING . 223 


A queer  account  still  exists  of  a holiday 
jaunt  taken  by  Hogarth  and  four  friends  of 
his,  who  set  out  like  the  redoubted  Mr.  Pick- 
wick and  his  companions,  but  just  a hundred 
years  before  those  heroes  ; and  made  an  excur- 
sion to  Gravesend,  Rochester,  Sheerness,  and 
adjacent  places.*  One  of  the  gentlemen 
noted  down  the  proceedings  of  the  journey, 
for  which  Hogarth  and  a brother  artist  made 
drawings.  The  book  is  chiefly  curious  at  this 
moment  from  showing  the  citizen  life  of  those 
days,  and  the  rough  jolly  style  of  merriment, 
not  of  the  five  companions  merely,  but  of 
thousands  of  jolly  fellows  of  their  time. 
Hogarth  and  his  friends,  quitting  the  u Bed- 
ford Arms,”  Covent  Garden,  with  a song, 
took  water  to  Billingsgate,  exchanging  compli- 
ments with  the  bargemen  as  they  went  down 
the  river.  At  Billingsgate,  Hogarth  made  a 
u earacatura”  of  a facetious  porter,  called  the 
Duke  of  Puddledock,  who  agreeably  enter- 
tained the  party  with  the  humors  of  the  place. 
Hence  they  took  a Gravesend  boat  for  them- 
selves ; had  straw  to  lie  upon,  and  a tilt  over 
their  heads,  they  say,  and  went  down  the  river 
at  night,  sleeping  and  singing  jolly  choruses. 

They  arrived  at  Gravesend  at  six,  when 
they  washed  their  faces  and  hands,  and  had 
their  wigs  powdered.  Then  they  sallied  forth 
for  Rochester  on  foot,  and  drank  by  the  way 
three  pots  of  ale.  At  one  o’clock  they  went 


*He  made  this  excursion  in  1732,  his  companions  being  John 
Thornhill  (son  of  Sir  James),  Scott  the  landscape  painter, 
Tothall  and  Forrest. 


224 


jUNULISH  HUMORISTS. 


to  dinner  with  excellent  port,  and  a quantity 
more  beer,  and  afterwards  Hogarth  and  Scott 
played  at  hopscotch  in  the  town  hall.  It  would 
appear  that  they  slept  most  of  them  in  one 
room,  and  the  chronicler  of  the  party  describes 
them  all  as  waking  at  seven  o’clock,  and  tell- 
ing each  other  their  dreams.  You  have  rough 
sketches  by  Hogarth  of  the  incidents  of  this 
holida}7  excursion.  The  sturdy  little  painter  is 
seen  sprawling  over  a plank  to  a boat  at  Graves- 
end ; the  whole  company  are  represented  in 
one  design,  in  a fisherman’s  room,  where  they 
had  all  passed  the  night.  One  gentleman  in  a 
nightcap  is  shaving  himself ; another  is  being 
shaved  by  the  fisherman  ; a third,  with  a hand- 
kerchief over  his  bald  pate,  is  taking  his  break- 
fast ; and  Hogarth  is  sketching  the  whole  scene. 

They  describe  at  night  how  they  returned  to 
their  quarters,  drank  to  their  friends,  as  usual, 
emptied  several  cans  of  good  flip,  all  singing 
merrily. 

It  is  a jolly  party  of  tradesmen  engaged  at 
high  jinks.  These  were  the  manners  and 
pleasures  of  Hogarth,  of  his  time  very  likely, 
of  men  not  very  refined,  but  honest  and  merry. 
It  is  a brave  London  citizen,  with  John  Bull 
habits,  prejudices,  and  pleasures.* ** 


* Doctor  Johnson  made  four  lines  once,  on  the  death  of  poor 
Hogarth,  which  were  equally  true  and  pleasing;  I know  not 
why  Garrick’s  were  preferred  to  them  : — 

**  ‘ The  hand  of  him  here  torpid  lies, 

That  drew  th’  essential  forms  of  grace; 

Here,  closed  in  death,  th’  attentive  eyes, 

That  saw  the  manners  in  the  face.’ 

“ Mr.  Hogarth,  among  the  variety  of  kindnesses  shown  to 
me  when  I was  too  young  to  have  a proper  sense  of  them,  was 


HOGARTH,  SMOLLETT , ANT)  FIELDING . 226 

Of  Smollett’s  associates  and  maimer  of 
life  the  author  of  the  admirable  u Humphrey 
Clinker  ” has  given  us  an  interesting  account 
in  that  most  amusing  of  novels.* 

I have  no  doubt  that  this  picture  by  Smol- 


used  to  be  very  earnest  that  I should  obtain  the  acquaintance, 
and  if  possible  the  friendship,  of  Dr.  Johnson;  whose  conver- 
sation was,  to  the  talk  of  other  men,  like  Titian’s  painting  com- 
pared to  Hudson’s,  he  said : ‘ but  don’t  you  tell  people  now 
that  I say  so,’  continued  he  : ‘ for  the  connoisseurs  and  I are  at 
war,  you  know;  and  because  I hate  them , they  think  I hate 
Titian  — and  let  them ! * . . . Of  Dr.  Johnson,  when  my  father 
and  he  were  talking  about  him  one  day,  ‘ That  man,’  says 
Hogarth,  ‘is  not  contented  with  believing  the  Bible;  but  he 
fairly  resolves,  I think,  to  believe  nothing  but  the  Bible.  John- 
son,’ added  he,  ‘ though  so  wise  a fellow,  is  more  like  King 
David  than  King  Solomon,  for  he  says  in  his  haste,  All  men  are 
liars)  ” — Mrs.  Piozzi. 

Hogarth  died  on  the  26th  of  October,  1764.  The  day  before 
his  death,  he  was  removed  from  his  villa  at  Chiswick  to  Leices- 
ter Fields,  “ in  a very  weak  condition,  yet  remarkably  cheerful.” 
He  had  just  received  an  agreeable  letter  from  Franklin.  He 
lies  buried  at  Chiswick. 

*“To  Sir  W atkin  Phillips,  Bart.,  op  Jesus  College, 
Oxon. 

“ Dear  Phillips , — In  my  last,  I mentioned  my  having 
spent  an  evening  with  a society  of  authors,  who  seemed  to  be 
jealous  and  afraid  of  one  another.  My  uncle  was  not  at  all  sur- 
prised to  hear  me  say  I was  disappointed  in  their  conversa- 
tion. ‘A  man  may  be  very  entertaining  and  instructive  upon 
paper,’  said  he,  * and  exceedingly  dull  in  common  discourse.  I 
have  observed,  that  those  who  shine  most  in  private  company 
are  but  secondary  stars  in  the  constellation  of  genius.  A small 
stock  of  ideas  is  more  easily  managed,  and  sooner  displayed, 
than  a great  quantity  crowded  together.  There  is  very  seldom 
anything  extraordinary  in  the  appearance  and  address  of  a good 
writer;  whereas  a dull  author  generally  distinguishes  himself 
by  some  oddity  or  extravagance.  For  this  reason  I fancy  that 
an  assembly  of  grubs  must  be  very  diverting.* 

“ My  curiosity  being  excited  by  this  hint,  I consulted  my  friend 
Dick  Ivy,  who  undertook  to  gratify  it  the  very  next  day,  which 

was  Sunday  last.  He  carried  me  to  dine  with  S , whom  you 

and  I have  long  known  by  his  writings.  He  lives  in  the  skirts  of 
the  town;  and  every  Sunday  his  house  is  open  to  all  unfortu- 
nate brothers  of  the  quill,  whom  he  treats  with  beef,  pudding, 
and  potatoes,  port,  punch,  and  Calvert’s  entire  butt  beer.  He 
has  fixed  upon  the  first  day  of  the  week  for  the  exercise  of  his 
hospitality,  because  some  of  his  guests  could  not  enjoy  it  on  any 

15 


226 


ENGLISH  HUMOBISTS. 


lett  is  as  faithful  a one  as  any  from  the  pencil 
of  his  kindred  humorist,  Hogarth. 

We  have  before  us,  and  painted  by  his  own 
hand,  Tobias  Smollett,  the  manly,  kindly, 
honest,  and  irascible  ; worn  and  battered,  but 


other,  for  reasons  that  I need  not  explain.  I was  civilly  re- 
ceived in  a plain,  yet  decent  habitation,  which  opened  back- 
wards into  a very  pleasant  garden,  kept  in  excellent  order;  and 
indeed,  I saw  none  of  the  outward  signs  of  authorship  either  in 
the  house  or  the  landlord,  who  is  one  of  those  few  writers  of 
the  age  that  stand  upon  their  own  foundation,  without  patron- 
age, and  above  dependence.  If  there  was  nothing  characteristic 
in  the  entertainer,  the  company  made  ample  amends  for  hisi 
want  of  singularity. 

“ At  two  in  the  afternoon,  I found  myself  one  of  ten  mess- 
mates seated  at  table;  and  I question  if  the  whole  kingdom 
could  produce  such  another  assemblage  of  originals.  Among 
their  peculiarities,  I do  not  mention  those  of  dress,  which  may 
be  purely  accidental.  What  struck  me  were  oddities  originally 
produced  by  affectation,  and  afterwards  confirmed  by  habit. 
One  of  them  wore  spectacles  at  dinner,  and  another  his  hat 
flapped ; though  (as  Ivy  told  me)  the  first  was  noted  for  having 
a seaman’s  eye  when  a bailiff  was  in  the  wind ; and  the  other  was 
never  known  to  labor  under  any  weakness  or  defect  of  vision, 
except  about  five  years  ago,  when  he  was  complimented  with  a 
couple  of  black  eyes  by  a player,  with  whom  he  had  quarrelled 
in  his  drink.  A third  wore  a laced  stocking,  and  made  use 
of  crutches,  because,  once  in  his  life,  he  had  been  laid  up  with 
a broken  leg,  though  no  man  could  leap  over  a stick  with  more 
agility.  A fourth  had  contracted  such  an  antipathy  to  the 
country,  that  he  insisted  upon  sitting  with  his  Lack  towards 
the  window  that  looked  into  the  garden;  and  when  a dish  of 
cauliflower  was  set  upon  the  table,  he  snuffed  up  volatile  salts 
to  keep  him  from  fainting;  yet  this  delicate  person  was  the_ 
son  of  a cottager,  born  under  a hedge,  and  had  many  years  run 
wild  among  asses  on  a common.  A fifth  affected  distraction  : 
when  spoke  to  he  always  answered  from  the  purpose.  Some- 
times he  suddenly  started  up,  and  rapped  out  a dreadful  oath; 
sometimes  he  burst  out  a laughing;  then  he  folded  his  arms, 
and  sighed;  and  then  he  hissed  like  fifty  serpents. 

“At  first,  I really  thought  he  was  mad;  and,  as  he  sat 
near  me,  began  to  be  under  some  apprehensions  for  my  own 
safety;  when  our  landlord,  perceiving  me  alarmed,  assured  me 
aloud  that  I had  nothing  to  fear.  ‘ The  gentleman,’  said  he,  ‘ is 
trying  to  act  a part  for  which  he  is  by  no  means  qualified  : if  he 
had  all  the  inclination  in  the  world,  it  is  not  in  his  power  to  be 
mad  ; his  spirits  are  too  flat  to  be  kindled  into  phrenzy.’  ‘ ;T  is  no 
bad  p-p-puff,  how-owever,’  observed  a person  in  a tarnished  laced 
coat : ‘ aff-ffected  m-madness  w-ill  p-pass  for  w-wit  w-with  nine 
nineteen  out  of  t-twenty.’  * And  affected  stuttering  for  humor,’ 


HOGABTH , SMOLLETT,  AND  FIELDING- . 22? 


still  brave  and  full  of  heart,  after  a long  strug- 
gle against  a hard  fortune.  His  brain  had 
been  busied  with  a hundred  different  schemes  ; 
he  had  been  reviewer  and  historian,  critic, 
medical  writer,  poet,  pamphleteer.  He  had 


replied  our  landlord;  * though,  Ood  knows!  there  is  no  affinity 
between  them.’  It  seems  this  wag,  after  having  made  some 
abortive  attempts  in  plain  speaking,  had  recourse  to  this 
defect,  by  means  of  which  he  frequently  extorted  the  laugh  of 
the  company,  without  the  least  expense  of  genius;  and  that 
imperfection,  which  he  had  at  first  counterfeited,  was  now 
become  so  habitual,  that  he  could  not  lay  it  aside. 

“ A certain  winking  genius,  who  wore  yellow  gloves  at  dinner. 

had,  on  his  first  introduction,  taken  such  offence  at  S , 

because  he  looked  and  talked,  and  ate  and  drank,  like  any  other 
man,  that  he  spoke  contemptuously  of  his  understanding  ever 
after,  and  never  would  repeat  his  visit,  until  he  had  exhibited 
the  following  proof  of  his  caprice.  Wat  Wyvil,  the  poet,  hav- 
ing made  some  unsuccessful  advances  towards  an  intimacy  with 

S , at  last  gave  him  to  understand,  by  a third  person,  that 

he  had  written  a poem  in  his  praise,  and  a satire  against  his 
person  : that  if  he  would  admit  him  to  his  house,  the  first  should 
be  immediately  sent  to  press;  but  that  if  he  persisted  in  de- 
clining his  friendship,  he  would  publish  the  satire  without 

delay,  S replied,  that  he  looked  upon  Wyvil’s  panegyric 

as,  in  effect,  a species  of  infamy,  and  would  resent  it  accord- 
ingly with  a good  cudgel;  but  if  he  published  ihe  satire,  he 
might  deserve  his  compassion,  and  had  nothing  to  fear  from 
his  revenge.  Wyvil  having  considered  the  alternative,  resolved 

to  mortify  S by  printing  the  panegyric,  for  which  he  re 

ceived  a sound  drubbing.  Then  he  swore  the  peace  against  the 
aggressor,  who,  in  order  to  avoid  a prosecution  at  law,  admitted 
him  to  his  good  graces.  It  was  the  singularity  in  S ’s  con- 

duct on  this  occasion,  that  reconciled  him  to  the  yellow-gloved 
philosopher,  who  owned  he  had  some  genius;  and  from  that 
period  cultivated  his  acquaintance. 

“ Curious  to  know  upon  what  subjects  the  several  talents  of 
my  fellow-guests  were  employed,  I applied  to  my  communica- 
tive friend  Dick  Ivy,  who  gave  me  to  understand  that  most  of 
them  were,  or  had  been,  understrappers,  or  journeymen,  to  more 
creditable  authors,  for  whom  they  translated,  collated,  and 
compiled,  in  the  business  of  bookmaking;  and  that  all  of  them 
had,  at  different  times,  labored  in  the  service  of  our  landlord, 
though  they  had  now  set  up  for  themselves  in  various  depart- 
ments of  literature.  Not  only  their  talents,  but  also  their 
nations  and  dialects,  were  so  various  that  our  conversation  re- 
sembled the  confusion  of  tongues  at  Babel.  We  had  the  Irish 
brogue,  the  Scotch  accent,  and  foreign  idiom,  twanged  off  by 
the  most  discordant  vociferation ; for  as  they  all  spoke  together, 
no  man  had  any  chance  to  be  heard,  unless  he  could  bawl  louder 


228 


ENGLISH  HUMOEISTS . 


fought  endless  literary  battles ; and  braved 
and  wielded  for  years  the  cudgels  of  contro- 
versy. It  was  a hard  and  savage  tight  in 
those  days,  and  a niggard  pay.  He  was  op- 
pressed by  illness,  age,  narrow  fortune  ; but 
his  spirit  was  still  resolute,  and  his  courage 
steady ; the  battle  over,  he  could  do  justice 


than  his  fellows.  It  must  be  owned,  however,  there  was  noth- 
ing pedantic  in  their  discourse;  they  carefully  avoided  all 
learned  disquisitions,  and  endeavored  to  be  facetious : nor  did 
their  endeavors  always  miscarry;  some  droll  repartee  passed, 
and  much  laughter  was  excited ; and  if  any  individual  lost  his 
temper  so  far  as  to  transgress  the  bounds  of  decorum,  he  was 
effectually  checked  by  the  master  of  the  feast,  who  exerted  a 
sort  of  paternal  authority  over  this  irritable  tribe. 

“ The  most  learned  philosopher  of  the  whole  collection,  who 
had  been  expelled  the  university  for  atheism,  has  made  great 
progress  in  a refutation  of  Lord  Bolingbroke’s  metaphysical 
works,  which  is  said  to  be  equally  ingenious  and  orthodox  : but, 
in  the  mean  time,  he  has  been  presented  to  the  grand  jury  as  a 
public  nuisance  for  having  blasphemed  in  an  alehouse  on  the 
Lord’s  day.  The  Scotchman  gives  lectures  on  the  pronunciation 
of  the  English  language,  which  he  is  now  publishing  by  sub- 
scription. 

“ The  Irishman  is  a political  writer,  and  goes  by  the  name 
of  My  Lord  Potatoe.  He  wrote  a pamphlet  in  vindication  of  a 
Minister,  hoping  his  zeal  would  be  rewarded  with  some  place 
or  pension;  but  finding  himself  neglected  in  that  quarter,  he 
whispered  about  that  the  pamphlet  was  written  by  the  Minister 
himself,  and  he  published  an  answer  to  his  own  production. 
In  this  he  addressed  the  author  under  the  title  of  * your  lord- 
ship,’  with  such  solemnity,  that  the  public  swallowed  the  deceit 
and  bought  up  the  w'hole  impression.  The  wise  politicians  of 
the  metropolis  declared  they  were  both  masterly  performances, 
and  chuckled  over  the  flimsy  reveries  of-an  ignorant  garreteer, 
as  the  profound  speculations  of  a veteran  statesman,  acquainted 
with  all  the  secrets  of  the  cabinet.  The  imposture  was  detected 
in  the  sequel,  and  our  Hibernian  pamphleteer  retains  no  part 
of  his  assumed  importance,  but  the  bare  title  of  ‘my  lord,’  and 
the  upper  part  of  the  table  at  the  potato-ordinary  in  Shoe 
Lane. 

“ Opposite  to  me  sat  a Piedmontese,  who  had  obliged  the 
public  with  a humorous  satire,  entitled  ‘ The  Balance  of  the 
English  Poets  ’ ; a performance  which  evinced  the  great  modesty 
and  taste  of  the  author,  and,  in  particular,  his  intimacy  with 
the  elegances  of  the  English  language.  The  sage,  who  labored 
under  the  aypo^oSia,  or,  ‘ horror  of  green  fields,’  had  just  fin- 
ished a treatise  on  practical  agriculture,  though,  in  fact,  he  had 


HOG  AB  Til,  SMOLLETT , AMD  FIELDING.  229 


to  the  enemy  with  whom  he  had  been  so 
fiercely  engaged,  and  give  a not  unfriendly 
grasp  to  the  hand  that  had  mauled  him.  He 
is  like  one  of  those  Scotch  cadets,  of  whom 
history  gives  us  so  many  examples,  and  whom, 
with  a national  fidelity,  the  great  Scotch  nov- 
elist has  painted  so  charmingly.  Of  gentle 


never  seen  corn  growing  in  hi8  life,  and  was  so  ignorant  of 
grain,  that  our  entertainer,  in  the  face  of  the  whole  company, 
made  him  own  that  a plate  of  hominy  was  the  best  rice-pudding 
he  had  ever  eat. 

“ The  stutterer  had  almost  finished  his  travels  through  Europe 
and  part  of  Asia,  without  ever  budging  beyond  the  liberties  of 
the  King’s  Bench,  except  in  term-time  with  a tipstaff  for  his 
companion  : and  as  for  little  Tim  Cropdale,  the  most  facetious 
member  of  the  whole  society,  he  had  happily  wound  up  the 
catastrophe  of  a virgin  tragedy,  from  the  exhibition  of  which  he 
promised  himself  a large  fund  of  profit  and  reputation.  Tim 
had  made  shift  to  live  many  years  by  writing  novels,  at  the  rate 
of  five  pounds  a volume;  but  that  branch  of  business  is  now 
engrossed  by  female  authors,  who  publish  merely  for  the  prop- 
agation of  virtue,  with  so  much  ease,  and  spirit,  and  delicacy, 
aud  knowledge  of  the  human  heart,  and  all  in  the  serene  tran- 
quillity of  high  life,  that  the  reader  is  not  only  enchanted  by 
their  genius,  but  reformed  by  their  morality. 

“ After  dinner,  we  adjourned  into  the  garden,  where  lob- 
served  Mr.  S give  a short  separate  audience  to  every  indi- 

vidual in  a small  remote  filbert-walk,  from  whence  most  of  them 
dropped  off  one  after  another,  without  further  ceremony. ” 

Smollett’s  house  was  in  Lawrence  Lane,  Chelsea,  and  is  now 
destroyed.  See  Handbook  of  London,  p 115. 

“ The  person  of  Smollett  was  eminently  handsome,  his 
features  prepossessing,  and,  by  the  joint  testimony  of  all  his 
surviving  friends,  his  conversation,  in  the  highest  degree,  in- 
structive aud  amusing.  Of  his  disposition,  those  who  have 
read  his  works  (and  who  has  not?)  may  form  a very  accurate 
estimate;  for  in  each  of  them  he  has  presented,  and  sometimes 
under  various  points  of  view,  the  leading  features  of  his  own 
character  without  disguising  the  most  unfavorable  of  them. 
. . . When  unseduced  by  his  satirical  propensities,  he  was 
kind,  generous,  and  humane  to  others;  bold,  upright,  and  inde- 
pendent in  his  own  character;  stooped  to  no  patron,  sued  for 
no  favor,  but  honestly  and  honorably  maintained  himself  on 
his  literary  labors.  . . . He  was  a doating  father,  and  an  affec- 
tionate husband;  and  the  warm  zeal  with  which  his  memory 
was  cherished  by  his  surviving  friends  showed  clearly  the  reli- 
ance which  they  placed  upon  his  regard.”  — Sir  Walter 
Scott, 


230 


ENGLISH  HTJMOBISTS. 


birth  * and  narrow  means,  going  out  from  his 
northern  home  to  win  his  fortune  in  the  world, 
and  to  fight  his  way,  armed  with  courage, 
hunger,  and  keen  wits.  His  crest  is  a shat- 


* Smollett  of  Bonhill,  in  Dumbartonshire.  Arms,  azure,  a 
bend,  or,  between  a lion  rampant,  ppr.,  holding  in  his  paw  a 
banner,  argent,  and  a bugle-horn,  also  ppr.  Crest , an  oak-tree, 
ppr.  Motto , Vires co. 

Smollett’s  father,  Archibald,  was  the  fourth  son  of  Sir 
James  Smollett  of  Bonhill,  a Scotcn  Judge  and  Member  of  Par- 
liament, and  one  of  the  commissioners  for  framing  the  Union 
with  England.  Archibald  married,  without  the  old  gentleman’s 
consent,  and  died  early,  leaving  his  children  dependent  on  their 
grandfather.  Tobias,  the  second  son,  was  born  in  17*21,  in  the 
old  house  of  Dalquharn,  in  the  valley  of  Leven  ; and  all  his  life 
loved  and  admired  that  valley  and  Loch  Lomond  beyond  all  the 
valleys  and  lakes  in  Europe.  He  learned  the  “ rudiments  ” at 
Dumbarton  Grammar  School,  and  studied  at  Glasgow. 

But  when  he  was  only  ten,  his  grandfather  died,  and  left 
hfm  without  provision  (figuring  as  the  old  judge  in  “ Roderick 
Random  in  consequence,  according  to  Sir  Walter).  Tobias 
armed  with  the  “ Regicide,  a Tragedy”  — a provision  precisely 
similar  to  that  with  which  Doctor  Johnson  had  started,  just 
before  came  up  to  London.  The  “ Regicide  ” came  to  no 
good,  though  at  first  patronized  by  Lord  Lyttelton  (“one  of 
those  little  fellows  who  are  sometimes  called  great  men,” 
Smollett  says) ; and  Smollett  embarked  as“  surgeon’s  mate  ” on 
board  a line-of-battle  ship,  and  served  in  the  Carthagena  expe- 
dition, in  1741.  He  left  the  service  in  the  West  Indies,  and 
after  residing  some  time  in  Jamaica,  returned  to  England  in 
1746. 

He  was  now  unsuccessful  as  a physician,  to  begin  with; 
published  the  satires,  “ Advice  ” and  “ Reproof,”  without  any 
luck;  and  (1747)  married  the  “beautiful  and  accomplished  Miss 
Lascelles.” 

In  1748  he  brought  out  his  “ Roderick  Random,”  which  at 
once  made  a “ hit.”  The  subsequent  events  of  his  life  may  be 
presented,  chronologically,  in  a bird’s-eye  view  : — 

1750.  Made  a tour  to  Paris,  where  he  chiefly  wrote  “ Pere- 
grine Pickle.” 

1751.  Published  “ Peregrine  Pickle.” 

1753.  Published  “ Adventures  of  Ferdinand  Count  Fathom.” 

1755.  Published  version  of  “ Don  Quixote.” 

1756.  Began  the  “Critical  Review.” 

1758.  Published  his  “ History  of  England.” 

1763-1766.  Travelling  in  France  and  Italy;  published  his 
“ Travels.” 

1769.  Published  “ Adventures  of  an  Atom.” 

1770.  Set  out  for  Italy;  died  at  Leghorn  21st  of  October, 
1771,  in  the  fifty-first  year  of  his  age. 


HOGABTH , SMOLLETT , J.YZ>  FIELDING.  231 


tered  oak-tree,  with  green  leaves  yet  spring- 
ing from  it.  On  his  ancient  coat-of-arms 
there  is  a lion  and  a horn  ; this  shield  of  his 
was  battered  and  dinted  in  a hundred  fights 
and  brawls,*  through  which  the  stout  Scotch- 
man bore  it  courageously.  You  see  somehow 
that  ho  is  a gentleman,  through  all  his  battling 
and  struggling,  his  poverty,  his  hard-fought 
successes,  and  his  defeats.  His  novels  are 
recollections  of  his  own  adventures  ; his  char- 
acters drawn,  as  I should  think,  fron  person- 
ages with  whom  he  became  acquainted  in  his 
own  career  of  life.  Strange  companions  he 
must  have  had  ; queer  acquaintances  he  made 
in  the  Glasgow  College  — in  the  country 
apothecary’s  shop ; in  the  gun-room  of  the 
man-of-war  where  he  served  as  surgeon  ; and 
in  the  hard  life  on  shore,  where  the  sturdy 
adventurer  struggled  for  fortune.  He  did 


* A good  specimen  of  the  old  “ slashing”  style  of  writing  is 
presented  by  the  paragragh  on  Admiral  Knowles,  which  sub- 
jected Smollett  to  prosecution  and  imprisonment.  The  ad- 
miral’s defence  on  the  occasion  of  the  failure  of  the  Rochefort 
expedition  came  to  be  examined  before  the  tribunal  of  the 
“Critical  Review.” 

“ He  is,”  said  our  author,  “ an  admiral  without  conduct,  an 
engineer  without  knowledge,  an  officer  without  resolution,  and 
a man  without  veracity  ! ” 

Three  months’  imprisonment  in  the  King’s  Bench  avenged 
this  stinging  paragraph. 

But  the  “ Critical  ” was  to  Smollett  a perpetual  fountain  of 
“ hot  water.”  Among  less  important  controversies  may  be 
mentioned  that  with  Grainger,  the  translator  of  “Tibullus.” 
Grainger  replied  in  a pamphlet;  and  in  the  next  number  of  the 
“ Review”  we  find  him  threatened  with  “castigation,”  as  an 
“ owl  that  has  broken  from  his  mew ! ” 

In  Doctor  Moore’s  biography  of  him  is  a pleasant  anecdote. 
After  publishing  the  “ Don  Quixote,”  he  returned  to  Scotland 
to  pay  a visit  to  his  mother  : — 

“On  Smollett’s  arrival,  he  was  introduced  to  his  mother 
with  the  connivance  of  Mrs.  Telfer  (her  daughter),  as  a gentle- 
man from  the  West  Indies,  who  was  intimately  acquainted  with 


232 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS . 


not  invent  much,  as  I fancy,  but  had  the 
keenest  perceptive  faculty,  and  described 
what  he  saw  with  wonderful  relish  and  de- 
lightful broad  humor.  I think  Uncle  Bowling, 
in  14  Roderick  Random, ” is  as  good  a charac- 
ter as  Squire  Western  himself ; and  Mr.  Mor- 
gan, the  Welsh  apothecary,  is  as  pleasant  as 
Doctor  Caius.  What  man  who  has  made  his 
inestimable  acquaintance  — what  novel-reader 
who  loves  Don  Quixote  and  Major  Dalgetty  — 
will  refuse  his  most  cordial  acknowledgments 
to  the  admirable  Lieutenant  Lismahago?  The 
novel  of  44  Humphrey  Clinker  ” is,  I do  think, 
the  most  laughable  story  that  has  ever  been 
written  since  the  goodly  art  of  novel-writing 
began.  Winifred  Jenkins  and  Tabitha  Bram- 
ble must  keep  Englishmen  on  the  grin  for  ages 
yet  to  come  ; and  in  their  letters  and  the  story 


her  son.  The  better  to  support  his  assumed  character,  he  endeav- 
ored to  preserve  a serious  countenance,  approaching  to  a frown ; 
but  while  his  mother’s  eyes  were  riveted  on  his  countenance, 
he  could  not  refrain  from  smiling;  she  immediately  sprung 
from  her  chair,  and  throwing  her  arms  round  his  neck,  ex- 
claimed, * Ah,  my  son  ! my  soil ! I have  found  you  at  last ! * 

“ She  afterwards  told  him,  that  if  he  had  kept  his  austere 
looks  and  continued  to  gloom,  he  might  have  escaped  detection 
some  time  longer,  but,  * your  old  roguish  smile,’  added  she  ‘ be- 
trayed you  at  once.’  ” 

"“Shortly  after  the  publication  of  ‘The  Adventures  of  an 
Atom,’  disease  again  attacked  Smollett  with  redoubled  violence. 
Attempts  being  vainly  made  to  obtain  for  him  the  office  of  Con- 
sul in  some  part  of  the  Mediterranean,  he  was  compelled  to 
seek  a warmer  climate,  without  better  means  of  provision  than 
his  own  precarious  finances  could  afford.  The  kindness  of  his 
distinguished  friend  and  countryman,  Doctor  Armstrong  (then 
abroad),  procured  for  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Smollett  a house  at 
Monte  Nero,  a village  situated  on  the  side  of  a mountain  over- 
looking the  sea,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Leghorn,  a romantic 
and  salutary  abode,  where  he  prepared  for  the  press,  the  last, 
and  like  music  £ sweetest  in  the  close,’  the  most  pleasing  of  his 
compositions,  ‘ The  Expedition  of  Humphrey  Clinker.*  This 
delightful  -work  was  published  in  1771.”  — Sir  Walter  Scott. 


HOGARTH,  SMOLLETT , AND  FIELDING . 233 


of  their  loves  there  is  a perpetual  fount  of 
sparkling  laughter,  as  inexhaustible  as  Bla- 
chiefs  well. 

Fielding,  too,  has  described,  though  with 
a greater  hand,  the  characters  and  scenes 
which  he  knew  and  saw.  He  had  more  than 
ordinary  opportunities  for  becoming  acquainted 
with  life.  His  family  and  education,  first, 
his  fortunes  and  misfortunes  afterwards, 
brought  him  into  the  society  of  every  rank 
and  condition  of  man.  He  is  himself  the 
hero  of  his  books : he  is  wild  Tom  Jones,  he 
is  wild  Captain  Booth  ; less  wild,  I am  glad  to 
think,  than  his  predecessor : at  least  heartily 
conscious  of  demerit,  and  anxious  to  amend. 

When  Fielding  first  came  upon  the  town  in 
1727,  the  recollection  of  the  great  wits  was 
still  fresh  in  the  coffee-houses  and  assemblies, 
and  the  judges  there  declared  that  young 
Harry  Fielding  had  more  spirits  and  wit  than 
Congreve  or  any  of  his  brilliant  successors. 
His  figure  was  tall  and  stalwart ; his  face 
handsome,  manly,  and  noble-looking ; to  the 
very  last  days  of  his  life  he  retained  a gran- 
deur of  air,  and  although  worn  down  by  dis- 
ease, his  aspect  and  presence  imposed  respect 
upon  the  people  round  about  him. 

A dispute  took  place  between  Mr.  Fielding 
and  the  captain  * ** of  the  ship  in  which  he  was 

*The  dispute  with  the  captain  arose  from  the  wish  of  that 
functionary  to  intrude  on  his  right  to  his  cabin,  for  which  he 
had  paid  thirty  pounds.  After  recounting  the  circumstances  of 
the  apology,  he  characteristically  adds  : — 

**  And  here,  that  I may  not  be  thought  the  sly  trumpeter  of 


234 


ENGLISH  HUMOBISTS . 


making  his  last  voyage,  and  Fielding  relates 
how  the  man  finally  went  down  on  his  knees, 
and  begged  his  passenger’s  pardon.  He  was 
living  up  to  the  last  days  of  his  life,  and 
his  spirit  never  gave  in.  His  vital  power 
must  have  been  immensely  strong.  Lady 
Mary  Wortley  Montagu* *  prettily  character- 
izes Fielding  and  this  capacity  for  happiness 
which  he  possessed,  in  a little  notice  of  his 
death  when  she  compares  him  to  Steele,  who 
was  as  improvident  and  as  happy  as  he  was, 
and  says  that  both  should  have  gone  on  living 
forever.  One  can  fancy  the  eagerness  and 
gusto  with  which  a man  of  Fielding’s  frame, 

my  own  praises,  I do  utterly  disclaim  all  praise  on  the  occasion. 
Neither  did  tiie  greatness  of  my  mind  dictate,  nor  the  force  of 
my  Christianity  exact  this  foigiveness.  To  speak  truth,  I for- 
gave him  from  a motive  which  would  make  men  much  more 
forgiving,  if  they  were  much  wiser  than  they  are : because  it 
was  convenient  for  me  so  to  do.” 

* Lady  Mary  was  his  second  cousin — their  respective  grand- 
fathers being  sons  of  George  Fielding,  Earl  of  Desmond,  son  of 
William,  Earl  of  Denbigh. 

In  a letter  dated  just  a week  before  his  death,  she  says  : — 

“H.  Fielding  has  given  a tiue  picture  of  himself  and  h-is 
first  wife  in  the  characters  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Booth , some  compli- 
ments to  his  own  ligure  excepted ; and  I am  persuaded,  several 
of  the  incidents  he  mentions  are  real  matters  of  fact.  I wronder 
he  does  not  perceive  Tom  Jones  and  Mr.  Booth  are  sorry  scoun- 
drels. . . . Fielding  has  really  a fund  of  true  humor,  and 
was  to  be  pitied  at  his  first  entrance  into  the  world,  having 
no  choice,  as  he  said  himself,  but  to  be  a hackney  writer  or  a 
hackney  coachman.  His  genius  deserved  a better  fate;  but  I 
cannot  help  blaming  that  continued  indiscretion,  to  give  it  the 
softest  name,  that  has  run  through  his  life,  and  I am  afraid  still 
remains.  . . . Since  I was  born  no  original  has  appeared 
excepting  Congreve,  aud  Fielding,  who  would,  I believe,  have 
approached  nearer  to  his  excellences,  if  not  forced  by  his 
necessities  to  publish  without  correction,  and  throw  many  pro- 
ductions into  the  world  he  would  have  thrown  into  the  fire,  if 
meat  could  have  been  got  without  money,  or  money  without 
scribbling.  ...  I am  sorry  not  to  see  any  more  of  Pere- 
grine Pickle’s  performances;  I wish  you  would  tell  me  his 
name.”  — Letters  and  Works  (Lord  Wharncliffe’s  Ed.),  vol. 
iii.  pp.  93,  94. 


HOGARTH;  SMOLLETT , AND  FIELDING . 235 


with  his  vast  health  and  robust  appetite,  his 
ardent  spirits,  his  joyful  humor,  and  his  keen 
and  healthy  relish  for  life,  must  have  seized 
and  drunk  that  cup  of  pleasure  which  the 
town  offered  to  him.  Can  any  of  my  hearers 
remember  the  youthful  feats  of  a college 
breakfast  — the  meats  devoured  and  the  cups 
quaffed  in  that  Homeric  feast?  I can  call  to 
mind  some  of  the  heroes  of  those  youthful 
banquets,  and  fancy  young  Fielding  from 
Le}’den  rushing  upon  the  feast,  with  his  great 
laugh,  and  immense  healthy  young  appetite, 
eager  and  vigorous  to  enjoy.  The  young 
man’s  wit  and  manners  made  him  friends 
everywhere  : he  lived  with  the  grand  Man’s 
society  of  those  days ; he  was  courted  by 
peers  and  men  of  wealth  and  fashion.  As  he 
had  a paternal  allowance  from  his  father, 
General  Fielding,  which,  to  use  Henry’s  own 
phrase,  any  man  might  pay  who  would ; as 
he  liked  good  wine,  good  clothes,  and  good 
company,  which  are  all  expensive  articles  to 
purchase,  Harry  Fielding  began  to  run  into 
debt,  and  borrow  money  in  that  easy  manner 
in  which  Captain  Booth  borrows  money  in  the 
novel : was  in  nowise  particular  in  accepting 
a few  pieces  from  the  purses  of  his  rich  friends, 
and  bore  down  upon  more  than  one  of  them, 
as  Walpole  tells  us  only  too  truly,  for  a dinner 
or  a guinea.  To  supply  himself  with  the  lat- 
ter, he  began  to  write  theatrical  pieces,  having 
already,  no  doubt,  a considerable  acquaintance 
amongst  the  Oldfields  and  Bracegirdles  behind 
the  scenes.  He  laughed  at  these  pieces  and 


236 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


scorned  them.  When  the  audience  upon  one 
occasion  began  to  hiss  a scene  which  he  was 
too  lazy  to  correct,  and  regarding  which,  when 
Garrick  remonstrated  with  him,  he  said  that 
the  public  was  too  stupid  to  find  out  the  bad- 
ness of  his  work  : when  the  audience  began  to 
hiss,  Fielding  said  with  characteristic  cool- 
ness, “ They  have  found  it  out,  have  they?” 
He  did  not  prepare  his  novels  in  this  way,  and 
with  a very  different  care  and  interest  laid  the 
foundations  and  built  up  the  edifices  of  his 
future  fame. 

Time  and  shower  have  very  little  damaged 
those.  The  fashion  and  ornaments  are,  per- 
haps, of  the  architecture  of  that  age  ; but  the 
buildings  remain  strong  and  lofty,  and  of  ad- 
mirable proportions — masterpieces  of  genius 
and  monuments  of  workmanlike  skill. 

I cannot  offer  or  hope  to  make  a hero  of 
Harry  Fielding.  Why  hide  his  faults  ? Why 
conceal  his  weaknesses  in  a cloud  of  peri- 
phrases? Why  not  show  him,  like  him  as  he 
is,  not  robed  in  a marble  toga,  and  draped  and 
polished  in  an  heroic  attitude,  but  with  inked 
ruffles,  and  claret  stains  on  his  tarnished  laced 
coat,  and  on  his  manly  face  the  marks  of 
good-fellowship,  of  illness,  of  kindness,  of 
care  and  wine.  Stained  as  you  see  him,  and 
worn  by  care  and  dissipation,  that  man  retains 
some  of  the  most  precious  and  splendid  human 
qualities  and  endowments.  He  has  an  ad- 
mirable natural  love  of  truth,  the  keenest 
instinctive  antipathy  to  hypocrisy,  the  happi- 
est satirical  gift  of  laughing  it  to  scorn.  His 


EOGABTH,  SMOLLETT , AND  FIELDING . 237 


wit  is  wonderfully  wise  and  detective ; it 
flashes  upon  a rogue  and  lightens  up  a rascal 
like  a policeman’s  lantern.  He  is  one  of  the 
manliest  and  kindliest  of  human  beings  : in 
the  midst  of  all  his  imperfections,  he  respects 
female  innocence  and  infantine  tenderness  as 
you  would  suppose  such  a great-hearted,  cour- 
ageous soul  would  respect  and  care  for  them. 
He  could  not  be  so  brave,  generous,  truth- 
telling as  he  is,  were  he  not  infinitely  merciful, 
pitiful,  and  tender.  He  will  give  any  man  his 
purse  — he  can’t  help  kindness  and  profusion. 
He  may  have  low  tastes,  but  not  a mean  mind  ; 
he  admires  with  all  his  heart  good  and  virtu- 
ous men,  stoops  to  no  flattery,  bears  no  ran- 
cor, disdains  all  disloyal  arts,  does  his  public 
duty  uprightly,  is  fondly  loved  by  his  family, 
and  dies  at  his  work.* 

If  that  theory  be  — and  I have  no  doubt  it 
is  — the  right  and  safe  one,  that  human  nature 
is  always  pleased  with  the  spectacle  of  inno- 
cence rescued  by  fidelity,  purity,  and  courage, 
I suppose  that  of  the  heroes  of  Fielding’s 
three  novels,  we  should  like  honest  Joseph 
Andrews  the  best,  and  Captain  Booth  the 
second,  and  Tom  Jones  the  third. f 


* He  sailed  for  Lisbon,  from  G-ravesend,  on  Sunday  morn- 
ing, June  30th,  1754;  and  began  “The  Journal  of  a Voyage  ” 
during  the  passage.  He  died  at  Lisbon,  in  the  beginning  of 
October  of  the  same  year.  He  lies  buried  there,  in  the  English 
Protestant  church-yard,  near  the  Estrella  Church,  with  this  in- 
scription over  him : — 

“ HENRICUS  FIELDING. 

LUGET  BRITANNIA  GREMIO  NON  DATUM 
FOVERE  NATUM.” 

t Fielding  himself  is  said  by  Doctor  Warton  to  have  pre- 
ferred “ Joseph  Andrews”  to  his  other  writings. 


ENGLISH  HUMOBISTS. 


Joseph  Andrews,  though  he  wears  Lady 
Booby’s  east-off  livery,  is,  I think,  to  the  full 
as  polite  as  Tom  Jones  in  his  fustian  suit,  or 
Captain  Booth  in  regimentals.  lie  has,  like 
those  heroes,  large  calves,  broad  shoulders,  a 
high  courage,  and  a handsome  face.  The 
accounts  of  Joseph’s  bravery  and  good  quali- 
ties ; his  voice,  too  musical  to  halloo  to  the 
dogs  ; his  bravery  in  riding  races  for  the  gen- 
tlemen of  the  county,  and  his  constancy  in 
refusing  bribes  and  temptation,  have  some- 
thing affecting  in  their  naivete  and  freshness, 
and  prepossess  one  in  favor  of  that  handsome 
young  hero.  The  rustic  bloom  of  Fanny,  and 
the  delightful  simplicity  of  Parson  Adams, 
are  described  with  a friendliness  which  wins 
the  reader  of  their  story  ; we  part  from  them 
with  more  regret  than  from  Booth  and  Jones. 

Fielding,  no  doubt,  began  to  wrrite  this 
novel  in  ridicule  of  “Pamela,”  for  which 
work  one  can  understand  the  hearty  contempt 
and  antipathy  which  such  an  athletic  and  bois- 
terous genius  as  Fielding’s  must  have  enter- 
tained. He  could  n’t  do  otherwise  than  laugh 
at  the  puny  cockney  bookseller,  pouring  out 
endless  volumes  of  sentimental  twaddle,  and 
hold  him  up  to  scorn  as  a mollcoddle  and  a 
milksop.  His  genius  had  been  nursed  on  sack 
posset,  and  not  on  dishes  of  tea.  His  muse 
had  sung  the  loudest  in  tavern  choruses,  had 
seen  the  daylight  streaming  in  over  thousands 
of  emptied  bowls,  and  reeled  home  to  cham- 
bers on  the  shoulders  of  the  watchman.  Rich- 
ardson’s goddess  was  attended  by  old  maids 


HOGARTH ; SMOLLETT , ,4AT>  FIELDING . 239 

and  dowagers,  and  fed  on  muffins  and  bokea. 
“Milksop!”  roars  Harry  Fielding,  clatter- 
ing at  the  timid  skop-skutters.  u Wretch ! 
Monster ! Mohock ! ” shrieks  the  sentimental 
author  of  u Pamela”  ; * and  all  the  ladies  of 
his  court  cackle  out  an  affrighted  chorus. 
Fielding  proposes  to  write  a book  in  ridicule 
of  the  author,  whom  he  disliked  and  utterly 
scorned  and  laughed  at ; but  he  is  himself  of 
so  generous,  jovial,  and  kindly  a turn  that  he 
begins  to  like  the  characters  which  he  invents, 
can’t  help  making  them  manly  and  pleasant 
as  well  as  ridiculous,  and  before  he  has  done 
with  them  all,  loves  them  heartily  every  one. 

Richardson’s  sickening  antipathy  for  Harry 
Fielding  is  quite  as  natural  as  the  other’s 
laughter  and  contempt  at  the  sentimentalist. 
I have  not  learned  that  these  likings  and  dis- 
likings  have  ceased  in  the  present  day  : and 
every  author  must  lay  his  account  not  only  to 
misrepresentation,  but  to  honest  enmity  among 
critics,  and  to  being  hated  and  abused  for 
good  as  well  as  for  bad  reasons.  Richardson 
disliked  Fielding’s  works  quite  honestly  : Wal- 
pole quite  honestly  spoke  of  them  as  vulgar 
and  stupid.  Their  squeamish  stomachs  sick- 


* “ Richardson,’*  says  worthy  Mrs.  Barbauld,  in  her  Memoir 
of  him,  prefixed  to  his  Correspondence,  “ was  exceedingly  hurt 
at  this  ‘ Joseph  Andrews,’  the  more  so  as  they  had  been  on  good 
terms,  and  he  was  very  intimate  with  Fielding’s  two  sisters. 
He  never  appears  cordially  to  have  forgiven  it  (perhaps  it  was 
not  in  human  nature  he  should),  and  he  always  speaks  in  his 
letters  with  a great  deal  of  asperity  of  ‘Tom  Jones,’  more 
indeed  than  was  quite  graceful  in  a rival  author.  No  doubt  he 
himself  thought  his  indignation  was  solely  excited  by  the  loose 
morality  of  the  work  and  of  its  author,  but  he  could  tolerate 
Cibber.” 


ENGLISH  H UM  OH  1ST  S. 


240 


enecl  at  the  rough  fare  and  the  rough  guests 
assembled  at  Fielding’s  jolly  revel.  Indeed 
the  cloth  might  have  been  cleaner : and  the 
dinner  and  the  company  were  scarce  such  as 
suited  a dandy.  The  kind  and  wise  old  John- 
son would  not  sit  down  with  him.*  But  a 
greater  scholar  than  Johnson  could  afford  to 
admire  that  astonishing  genius  of  Harry  Field- 
ing : and  we  all  know  the  lofty  panegyric  which 
Gibbon  wrote  of  him,  and  which  remains  a 
towering  monument  to  the  great  novelist’s 
memory.  “ Our  immortal  Fielding,”  Gibbon 
writes,  u was  of  the  j'ounger  branch  of  the 
Earls  of  Denbigh,  who  drew  their  origin  from 
the  Counts  of  Hapsburgh.  The  successors  of 
Charles  V.  may  disdain  their  brethren  of  Eng- 
land, but  the  romance  of  4 Tom  Jones,’  that 
exquisite  picture  of  humor  and  manners,  will 
outlive  the  palace  of  the  Escurial  and  the  Im- 
perial Eagle  of  Austria.” 

There  can  be  no  gainsaying  the  sentence  of 
this  great  judge.  To  have  your  name  men- 
tioned by  Gibbon,  is  like  having  it  written  on 
the  dome  of  St.  Peter’s.  Pilgrims  from  all 
the  world  admire  and  behold  it. 

As  a picture  of  manners,  the  novel  of  “ Tom 
Jones”  is  indeed  exquisite:  as  a work  of 
construction,  quite  a wonder : the  by-play  of 
wisdom ; the  power  of  observation ; the  mul- 
tiplied felicitous  turns  and  thoughts ; the 


* It  must  always  be  borne  in  mind,  that  besides  that  the  Doctor 
could  n’t  be  expected  to  like  Fielding’s  wild  life  (to  say  nothing 
of  the  fact  that  they  were  of  opposite  sides  in  politics),  Richard- 
son was  one  of  his  earliest  and  kindest  friends.  Y et  Johnson  too 
(as  Boswell  tells  us)  read  “ Amelia”  through  without  stopping. 


HOG  AMT Tl,  /SMOLLETT,  AND  FIELDING.  241 


varied  character  of  the  great  Comic  Epic,  — 
keep  the  reader  in  a perpetual  admiration  and 
curiosity.*  But  against  Mr.  Thomas  Jones 
himself  we  have  a right  to  put  in  a protest, 
and  quarrel  with  the  esteem  the  author  evi- 
dently has  for  that  character.  Charles  Lamb 
says  finely  of  Jones,  that  a single  hearty  laugh 
from  him  44  clears  the  air  ” : but  then  it  is  in 
a certain  state  of  the  atmosphere.  It  might 
clear  the  air  when  such  personages  as  Blifil  or 
Lady  Bellaston  poison  it.  But  I fear  very 
much  that  (except  until  the  very  last  scene  of 
the  story),  when  Mr.  Jones  enters  Sophia’s 
drawing-room,  the  pure  air  there  is  rather 
tainted  with  the  young  gentleman’s  tobacco- 
pipe  and  punch.  I can’t  say  that  I think  Mr. 
Jones  a virtuous  character ; I can’t  say  but 
that  I think  Fielding’s  evident  liking  and  ad- 
miration for  Mr.  Jones  shows  that  the  great 
humorist’s  moral  sense  was  blunted  by  his 
life,  and  that  here,  in  Art  and  Ethics,  there 


* “Manners  change  from  generation  to  generation, and  with 
manners  morals  appear  to  change  — actually  change  with  some, 
but  appear  to  change  with  all  but  the  abandoned.  A young  man 
of  the  present  day  who  should  act  as  Tom  Jones  is  supposed  to 
act  at  Upton,  with  Lady  Bellaston,  etc.,  would  not  be  a Tom 
Jones;  and  a Tom  Jones  of  the  present  day,  without  perhaps 
being  in  the  ground  a better  man,  would  have  perished  rather 
than  submit  to  be  kept  by  a harridan  of  fortune.  Therefore, 
this  novel  is,  and  indeed  pretends  to  be,  no  example  of  conduct. 
But,  notwithstanding  all  this,  I do  loathe  the  cant  "which  can 
recommend  ‘ Pamela  ’ and  ‘ Clarissa  Harlowe  ’ as  strictly  moral, 
although  they  poison  the  imagination  of  the  young  with  contin. 
ued  Joses  of  tinct.  lyttoe , while  ‘ Tom  Jones  ’ is  prohibited  as  loose. 
I do  not  speak  of  young  women;  but  a young  man  whose  heart 
or  feelings  can  be  injured,  or  even  his  passions  excited  by  this 
novel,  is  already  thoroughly  corrffyt.  There  is  a cheerful,  sun- 
shiny, breezy  spirit,  that  prevails  everywhere,  strongly  con- 
trasted with  the  close,  hot,  day-dreamy  continuity  of  Richard- 
son.”— Coleridge  : Literary  Remains , vol.  ii,  p.  374. 

16 


242 


ENGLISH  HUMOBISTS . 


is  a great  error.  If  it  is  right  to  have  a hero 
whom  we  may  admire,  let  us  at  least  take  care 
that  he  is  admirable  : if,  as  is  the  plan  of 
some  authors  (a  plan  decidedly  against  their 
interests,  be  it  said),  it  is  propounded  that 
there  exists  in  life  no  such  being,  and  there- 
fore that  in  novels,  the  picture  of  life,  there 
should  appear  no  such  character ; then  Mr. 
Thomas  Jones  becomes  an  admissible  person, 
and  we  examine  his  defects  and  good  qualities, 
as  we  do  those  of  Parson  Thwackum,  or  Miss 
Seagrim.  But  a hero  with  a flawed  reputa- 
tion ; a hero  spunging  for  a guinea ; a hero 
who  can’t  pay  his  landlady,  and  is  obliged  to 
let  his  honor  out  to  hire,  is  absurd,  and  his 
claim  to  heroic  rank  untenable.  I protest 
against  Mr.  Thomas  Jones  holding  such  rank 
at  all.  I protest  even  against  his  being  con- 
sidered a more  than  ordinary  young  fellow, 
ruddy-cheeked,  broad-shouldered,  and  fond 
of  wine  and  pleasure.  He  would  not  rob  a 
church,  but  that  is  all ; and  a pretty  long 
argument  may  be  debated,  as  to  which  of 
these  old  types,  the  spendthrift,  the  hypo- 
crite, Jones  and  Blifil,  Charles  and  Joseph 
Surface,  is  the  worst  member  of  society 
and  the  most  deserving  of  censure.  The 
prodigal  Captain  Booth  is  a better  man  than 
his  predecessor  Mr.  Jones,  in  so  far  as  he 
thinks  much  more  humbly  of  himself  than 
Jones  did  : goes  down  on  his  knees,  and  owns 
his  weaknesses,  and^ries  out,  “Not  for  my 
sake,  but  for  the  sake  of  my  pure  and  sweet 
and  beautiful  wife  Amelia,  I pray  you,  O crit- 


HOGABTH,  SMOLLETT , AND  FIELDING-,  244 

ical  reader,  to  forgive  me.”  That  stern  mor- 
alist  regards  him  from  the  bench  (the  judge’s 
practice  out  of  court  is  not  here  the  question), 
and  says,  44  Captain  Booth,  it  is  perfectly  true 
that  your  iife  has  been  disreputable,  and  that 
on  many  occasions  you  have  shown  yourself 
to  be  no  better  than  a scamp  : you  have  been 
tippling  at  the  tavern,  when  the  kindest  and 
sweetest  lady  in  the  world  has  cooked  your 
little  supper  of  boiled  mutton  and  awaited  }tou 
all  the  night ; you  have  spoilt  the  little  disk 
of  boiled  mutton  thereby,  and  caused  pangs 
and  pains  to  Amelia’s  tender  heart.*  You 


* *‘Norwas  she  (Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu)  a stranger 
to  that  beloved  first  wife,  whose  picture  he  drew  in  his  ‘Amelia/ 
when,  as  she  said,  even  the  glowing  language  he  knew  how  to 
employ,  did  not  do  more  than  justice  to  the  amiable  qualities  of 
the  original,  or  to  her  beauty,  although  this  had  suffered  a little 
from  the  accident  related  in  the  novel  — a frightful  overturn, 
which  destroyed  the  gristle  of  her  nose.  He  loved  her  passion- 
ately and  she  returned  his  affection.  . . . 

“ His  biographers  seem  to  have  been  shy  of  disclosing  that, 
after  the  death  of  this  charming  woman,  he  married  her  maid. 
And  yet  the  act  was  not  so  discreditable  to  his  character  as  it 
may  sound.  The  maid  had  few  personal  charms,  but  was  an 
excellent  creature,  devotedly  attached  to  her  mistress,  and 
almost  broken-hearted  for  her  loss.  In  the  first  agonies  of  his 
own  grief,  which  approached  to  frenzy,  he  found  no  relief  but 
from  weeping  along  with  her ; nor  solace  when  a degree  calmer, 
but  in  talking  to  her  of  the  angel  they  mutually  regretted.  This 
made  her  his  habitual  confidential  associate,  and  in  process  of 
time  he  began  to  think  he  could  not  give  his  children  a tenderer 
mother,  or  secure  for  himself  a more  faithful  housekeeper  and 
nurse.  At  least,  this  was  what  he  told  his  friends;  and  it  is 
certain  that  her  conduct  as  his  wife  confirmed  it,  and  fully  justi- 
fied his  good  opinion.”  — Letters  and  Works  of  Lady  Mary 
Wortley  Montagu,  Edited  by  Lord  Wharncliffe.  Introduc- 
tory Anecdotes , vol.  i.  pp.  80,  81. 

Fielding's  first  wife  was  Miss  Craddock,  a young  lady  from 
Salisbury,  with  a fortune  of  £1,500,  whom  he  married  in  1736. 
About  the  same  time  he  succeeded,  himself,  to  an  estate  of  £200 
per  annum,  and  on  the  joint  amount  he  lived  for  some  time  as  a 
splendid  country  gentleman  in  Dorsetshire.  Three  years 
brought  him  to  the  end  of  his  fortune;  when  he  returned  to 
London,  and  became  a student  of  law. 


244 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS, 


have  got  into  debt  without  the  means  of  pay-* 
ing  it.  You  have  gambled  the  money  with 
which  you  ought  to  have  paid  your  rent.  You 
have  spent  in  drink  or  in  worse  amusements 
the  sums  which  your  poor  wife  has  raised  upon 
her  little  home  treasures,  her  own  ornaments, 
and  the  toys  of  her  children.  But,  you  ras- 
cal ! you  own  humbly  that  }Tou  are  no  better 
than  you  should  be  ; you  never  for  one  mo- 
ment pretend  that  you  are  anything  but  a 
miserable  weak-minded  rogue.  You  do  in 
your  heart  adore  that  angelic  woman,  your 
wfife,  and  for  her  sake,  sirrah,  you  shall  have 
your  discharge.  Lucky  for  you  and  for  others 
like  you,  that  in  spite  of  your  failings  and 
imperfections,  pure  hearts  pity  and  love  you. 
For  your  wife’s  sake  you  are  permitted  to  go 
hence  without  a remand ; and  I beg  you,  by 
the  wray,  to  carry  to  that  angelical  lady  the  ex- 
pression of  the  cordial  respect  and  admiration 
of  this  court. ” Amelia  pleads  for  her  hus- 
band, Will  Booth : Amelia  pleads  for  her 
reckless  kindly  old  father,  Harry  Fielding. 
To  have  invented  that  character,  is  not  only 
a triumph  of  art,  but  it  is  a good  action. 
They  say  it  wras  in  his  own  home  that  Field- 
ing knew  her  and  loved  her : and  from  his 
own  wTife  that  he  drew  tbe  most  charming 
character  in  English  fiction.  Fiction ! why 
fiction?  why  not  history?  I know  Amelia 
just  as  well  as  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu. 
I believe  in  Colonel  Bath  almost  as  much  as 
in  Colonel  Gardiner  or  the  Duke  of  Cumber- 
land. I admire  the  author  of  “ Amelia,”  and 


HOGARTH , SMOLLETT , AND  FIELDING . 245 


tliank  the  kind  master  who  introduced  me  to 
that  sweet  and  delightful  companion  and 
friend.  “Amelia”  perhaps  is  not  a better 
story  than  “ Tom  Jones,”  but  it  has  the  better 
ethics ; the  prodigal  repents  at  least,  before 
forgiveness, — -whereas  that  odious  broad- 
backed  Mr.  Jones  carries  off  his  beauty  with 
scarce  an  interval  of  remorse  for  his  manifold 
errors  and  shortcomings ; and  is  not  half 
punished  enough  before  the  great  prize  of 
fortune  and  love  falls  to  his  share.  I am 
angry  with  Jones.  Too  much  of  the  plum- 
cake  and  rewards  of  life  fall  to  that  boister- 
ous, swaggering  young  scapegrace.  Sophia 
actually  surrenders  without  a proper  sense  of 
decorum  ; the  fond,  foolish,  palpitating  little 
creature  ! — “ Indeed,  Mi*.  Jones,”  she  says, 
“it  rests  with  you  to  appoint  the  day.”  I 
suppose  Sophia  is  drawn  from  life  as  well  as 
Amelia ; and  many  a young  fellow,  no  better 
than  Mr.  Thomas  Jones,  has  carried  by  a coup 
de  main  the  heart  of  many  a kind  girl  who  was 
a great  deal  too  good  for  him. 

What  a wonderful  art ! What  an  admira- 
ble gift  of  nature  was  it  by  which  the  author 
of  these  tales  was  endowed,  and  which  enabled 
him  to  fix  our  interest,  to  waken  our  sympa- 
thy, to  seize  upon  our  credulity,  so  that  we 
believe  in  his  people  — speculate  gravely  upon 
their  faults  or  their  excellences,  prefer  this 
one  or  that,  deplore  Jones’s  fondness  for  drink 
and  play,  Booth’s  fondness  for  play  and  drink, 
and  the  unfortunate  position  of  the  wives  of 
both  gentlemen  — love  and  admire  those  ladies 


246 


ENGLISH  H TIM OBIS  TS. 


with  all  our  hearts,  and  talk  about  them  as 
faithfully  as  if  we  had  breakfasted  with  them 
this  morning  in  their  actual  drawing-rooms,  or 
should  meet  them  this  afternoon  in  the  Park ! 
AYhat  a genius  ! what  a vigor  ! what  a bright- 
eyed  intelligence  and  observation ! what  a 
wholesome  hatred  for  meanness  and  knavery ! 
what  a vast  sympathy  ! what  a cheerfulness ! 
what  a manly  relish  of  life  ! what  a love  of 
human  kind  ! what  a poet  is  here!  — watch- 
ing, meditating,  brooding,  creating ! What 
multitudes  of  truths  has  that  man  left  behind 
him ! What  generations  he  has  taught  to 
laugh  wisely  and  fairly ! What  scholars  he 
has  formed  and  accustomed  to  the  exercise  of 
thoughtful  humor  and  the  manly  play  of  wit ! 
What  a courage  he  had  ! What  a dauntless 
and  constant  cheerfulness  of  intellect,  that 
burned  bright  and  steady  through  all  the 
storms  of  his  life,  and  never  deserted  its  last 
wreck  ! It  is  wonderful  to  think  of  the  pains 
and  misery  which  the  man  suffered  ; the  press- 
ure of  want,  illness,  remorse,  which  he  en- 
dured ! and  that  the  writer  was  neither 
malignant  nor  melancholy,  his  view  of  truth 
never  warped,  and  his  generous  human  kind- 
ness never  surrendered.* 


* In  the  Gentleman' $ Magazine  for  1786,  an  anecdote  is 
related  of  Harry  Fielding,  “ in  whom,”  says  the  correspondent, 
“good-nature  and  philanthropy  in  their  extreme  degree  were 
known  to  be  the  prominent  features.”  It  seems  that  “ some  paro- 
chial taxes  ” for  his  house  in  Beaufort  Buildings  had  long  been 
demanded  by  the  collector.  “At  last,  Harry  went  off  to  John- 
son, and  obtained  by  a process  of  literary  mortgage  the  needful 
sum.  He  was  returning  with  it,  when  he  met  an  old  college 
chum  whom  he  had  not  seen  for  many  years.  He  asked  the 
chum  to  dinner  with  him  at  a neighboring  tavern;  and  learning 


HOGARTH,  SMOLLETT , AND  FIELDING.  247 


In  the  quarrel  mentioned  before,  which  hap- 
pened on  Fielding’s  last  voyage  to  Lisbon,  and 
when  the  stout  captain  of  the  ship  fell  down 
on  his  knees  and  asked  the  sick  man’s  pardon 
* — UI  did  not  suffer,”  Fielding  says,  in  his 
hearty,  manly  way,  his  eyes  lighting  up  as  it 
were  with  their  old  fire,  — 44 1 did  not  suffer  a 
brave  man  and  an  old  man  to  remain  a mo- 
ment in  that  posture,  but  immediately  for- 
gave him.”  Indeed,  I think,  with  his  noble 
spirit  and  unconquerable  generosity,  Fielding 


that  he  was  in  difficulties,  emptied  the  contents  of  his  pocket 
into  his.  On  returning  home  he  was  informed  that  the  collector 
had  been  twice  for  the  money.  ‘Friendship  has  called  for  the 
money  and  had  it,’  said  Fielding ; ‘ let  the  collector  call  again.’  ” 

It  is  elsewhere  told  of  him,  that  being  in  company  with  the 
Earl  of  Denbigh,  his  kinsman,  and  the  conversation  turning 
upon  their  relationship,  the  Earl  asked  him  how  it  was  that  he 
spelled  his  name  “ Fielding,”  and  not  “ Feilding,”  like  the  head 
of  the  house.  ‘I  cannot  tell,  my  lord,”  said  he,  “except  it  be 
that  my  branch  of  the  family  were  the  first  that  knew  how  to 
spell.” 

In  1748,  he  was  made  Justice  of  the  Peace  for  Westminster 
and  Middlesex,  an  office  then  paid  by  fees  and  very  laborious, 
without  being  particularly  reputable.  It  may  be  seen  from  his 
own  words,  in  the  Introduction  to  the  “ Voyage,”  what  kind  of 
work  devolved  upon  him,  and  in  what  a state  he  was,  during 
these  last  years;  and  still  more  clearly,  how  he  comported  him- 
self through  all : — 

“ Whilst  I was  preparing  for  my  journey,  and  when  I was 
almost  fatigued  to  death  with  several  long  examinations,  relat- 
ing to  five  different  murders,  all  committed  within  the  space  of 
a week,  by  different  gangs  of  street-robbers,  I received  a mes- 
sage from  his  Grace  the  Duke  of  Newcastle,  by  Mr.  Carrington, 
the  King’s  messenger,  to  attend  his  Grace  the  next  morning  in 
Lincoln’s  Inn  Fields  upon  some  business  of  importance : but  I 
excused  myself  from  complying  with  the  message,  as,  besides 
being  lame,  I was  very  ill  with  the  great  fatigues  I had  lately 
undergone,  added  to  my  distemper. 

“ His  Grace,  however,  sent  Mr.  Carrington  the  very  next 
morning  with  another  summons;  with  which,  though  in  the 
utmost  distress,  I immediately  complied;  but  the  Duke  happen- 
ing, unfortunately  for  me,  to  be  then  particularly  engaged,  after 
I had  waited  some  time,  sent  a gentleman  to  discourse  with  me 
on  the  best  plan  which  could  be  invented  for  these  murders  and 
robberies,  which,  were  every  day  committed  in  the  streets; 


248 


ENGLISH  HITMOBISTS . 


reminds  one  of  those  brave  men  of  whom  one 
reads  in  stories  of  English  shipwrecks  and 
disasters,  — of  the  officer  on  the  African  shore, 
when  disease  had  destroyed  the  crew,  and  he 
himself  is  seized  by  fever,  who  throws  the 
lead  with  a death-stricken  hand,  takes  the 
soundings,  carries  the  ship  out  of  the  river 
or  off  the  dangerous  coast,  and  dies  in  the 


upon  which  I promised  to  transmit  my  opiuion  in  writing  to  his 
Grace,  who,  as  the  gentleman  informed  me,  intended  to  lay  it 
before  the  Privy  Council. 

“ Though  this  visit  cost  me  a severe  cold,  T,  notwithstanding, 
set  myself  down  to  work,  and  in  about  four  days  sent  the 
Duke  as  regular  a plan  as  I could  form,  with  all  thj  reasons  and 
arguments  I could  bring  to  support  it,  drawn  out  on  several 
sheets  of  paper;  and  soon  received  a message  from  the  Duke, 
by  Mr.  Carrington,  acquainting  me  that  my  plan  was  highly 
approved  of,  and  that  all  the  terms  of  it  would  be  complied 
with. 

“ The  principal  and  most  material  of  these  terms  was  the 
immediately  depositing  £600  in  my  hands;  at  which  small 
charge  I undertook  to  demolish  the  then  reigning  gangs,  and  to 
put  the  civil  policy  into  such  order,  tnat  no  such  gang  should 
ever  be  able  for  the  future  to  form  themselves  into  bodies,  or 
at  least  to  remain  any  time  formidable  to  the  public. 

“ I had  delayed  my  Bath  journey  for  some  time,  contrary  to 
the  repeated  advice  of  my  physical  acquaintances  and  the  ardent 
desire  of  my  warmest  friends,  though  my  distemper  was  now 
turned  to  a deep  jaundice;  in  which  case  the  Bath  waters  are 
generally  reputed  to  be  almost  infallible.  But  I had  the  most 
eager  desire  to  demolish  this  gaug  of  villains  and  cut- 
throats.  . . . 

“After  some  weeks  the  money  was  paid  at  the  Treasury, 
and  within  a few  days  after  £200  of  it  had  come  into  ray  hands, 
the  whole  gang  of  cut-throats  was  entirely  dispersed.  . . .” 

Further  on,  he  says  : — 

“I  will  confess  that  my  private  affairs  at  the  beginning  of 
the  winter  had  but  a gloomy  aspect;  for  I had  not  plundered  the 
public  or  the  poor  of  those  sums  which  men,  who  are  always 
ready  to  plunder  both  as  much  as  they  can,  have  been  pleased  to 
suspect  me  of  taking;  on  the  contrary,  by  composing,  instead  of 
inflaming,  the  quarrels  of  porters  and  beggars  (which  I blush 
when  I say  hath  not  been  universally  practised),  and  by  re- 
fusing to  take  a shilling  from  a man  who  most  undoubtedly 
would  not  have  had  another  left,  I had  reduced  an  income  of 
about  £500  a year  of  the  dirtiest  money  upon  earth,  to  little 
more  than  £300,  a considerable  portion  of  which  remained  with 
my  clerk,” 


HOGARTH,  SMOLLETT , AND  FIELDING.  249 


manly  endeavor ; of  the  wounded  captain, 
when  the  vessel  founders,  who  never  loses  his 
heart,  who  eyes  the  danger  steadily,  and  has 
a cheery  word  for  all,  until  the  inevitable  fate 
overwhelms  him,  and  the  gallant  ship  goes 
down.  Such  a brave  and  gentle  heart,  such 
an  intrepid  and  courageous  spirit,  I love  to 
recognize  in  the  manly,  the  English  Harry 
Fielding. 


STERNE  AND  GOLDSMITH. 


Roger  Sterne,  Sterne’s  father,  was  the 
second  son  of  a numerous  race,  descendants 
of  Richard  Sterne,  Archbishop  of  York,  in 
the  reign  of  James  II.  ; and  children  of  Simon 
Sterne  and  Mary  Jaques,  his  wife,  heiress  of 
Elvington,  near  York.*  Roger  was  a lieuten- 
ant in  Handyside’s  regiment,  and  engaged  in 
Flanders  in  Queen  Anne’s  wars.  He  married 
the  daughter  of  a noted  sutler — 44  N.  B.,he 
was  in  debt  to  him,”  his  son  writes,  pursuing 
the  paternal  biography  — and  marched  through 
the  world  "with  this  companion  ; she  following 
the  regiment  and  bringing  many  children  to 
poor  Roger  Sterne.  The  captain  was  an  iras- 
cible but  kind  and  simple  little  man,  Sterne 
says,  and  informs  us  that  his  sire  was  run 
through  the  body  at  Gibraltar,  by  a brother 
officer,  in  a duel  which  ar  se  out  of  a dispute 
about  a goose.  Roger  never  entirely  recov- 
ered from  the  effects  of  this  rencontre,  but 
died  presently  at  Jamaica,  whither  he  had  fol- 
lowed the  drum. 

Laurence,  his  second  child,  was  born  at 
Clonmel,  in  Ireland,  in  1713,  and  travelled, 
for  the  first  ten  years  of  his  life,  on  his  father’s 
march,  from  barrack  to  transport,  from  Ireland 
to  England. t 

One  relative  of  his  mother’s  took  her  and 


* He  came  of  a Suffolk  family,  one  of  whom  settled  in 
Nottinghamshire.  The  famous  “starling”  was  actually  the 
family  crest. 

+ “ It  -was  in  this  parish  (of  Animo,  in  Wicklow),  during  our 


STEBNE  AND  GOLDSMITH. 


251 


her  family  under  shelter  for  ten  months  at 
Mullingar : another  collateral  descendant  of 
the  Archbishop’s  housed  them  for  a year  at  his 
castle  near  Carrickfergus.  Larry  Sterne  was 
put  to  school  at  Halifax  in  England,  finally 
was  adopted  by  his  kinsman  of  Elvington,  and 
parted  company  with  his  father,  the  Captain 
who  marched  on  his  path  of  life  till  he  met  the 
fatal  goose,  which  closed  his  career.  The 
most  picturesque  and  delightful  parts  of  Lau- 
rence Sterne’s  writings,  we  owe  to  his  recollec- 
tions of  the  military  life.  Trim’s  montero 
cap,  and  Le  Fevre’s  sword,  and  dear  Uncle 
Toby’s  roquelaure  are  doubtless  reminiscences 
of  the  boy,  who  had  lived  with  the  followers  of 
William  and  Marlborough,  and  had  beat  time 
with  his  little  feet  to  the  fifes  of  Ramillies  in 
Dublin  barrack-yard,  or  played  with  the  torn 
flags  and  halberds  of  Malplaquet  on  the  parade- 
ground  at  Clonmel. 

Laurence  remained  at  Halifax  school  till  he 
was  eighteen  years  old.  His  wit  and  clever- 
ness appear  to  have  acquired  the  respect  of 
his  master  here  ; for  when  the  usher  whipped 
Laurence  for  writing  his  name  on  the  newly 
whitewashed  school-room  ceiling,  the  peda- 
gogue in  chief  rebuked  the  understrapper,  and 
said  that  the  name  should  never  be  effaced, 
for  Sterne  was  a boy  of  genius,  and  would 
come  to  preferment. 


stay,  that  I had  that  wonderful  escape  in  falling  through  a mill 
race,  whilst  the  mill  was  going,  and  of  being  taken  up  unhurt; 
the  story  is  incredible,  but  known  for  truth  in  all  that  part  of 
Ireland,  where  hundreds  of  the  common  people  flocked  to  see 
me.”  — Sterne. 


252 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


His  cousin,  the  Squire  of  Elvington,  sent 
Sterne  to  Jesus  College,  Cambridge,  where  he 
remained  five  years,  and  taking  orders,  got, 
through  his  uncle’s  interest,  the  living  of  Sut- 
ton  and  the  prebendary  of  York.  Through 
his  wife’s  connections,  he  got  the  living  of 
Stillington.  He  married  her  in  1741,  having 
ardently  courted  the  young  lady  for  some  years 
previously.  It  was  not  until  the  young  lady 
fancied  herself  dying,  tli  <t  she  made  Sterne 
acquainted  with  the  extent  of  her  liking  for 
him.  One  evening  when  he  was  sitting  with 
her,  with  an  almost  broken  heart  to  see  her  so 
ill  (the  Rev.  Mr.  Sterne’s  heart  was  a good 
deal  broken  in  the  course  of  his  life) , she  said, 
u My  dear  Laurey,  I never  can  be  yours,  for 
I verily  believe  I have  not  long  to  live  ; but  I 
have  left  you  every  shilling  of  my  fortune”; 
a generosity  which  overpowered  Sterne.  She 
recovered  : and  so  they  were  married,  and 
grew  heartily  tired  of  each  other  before  many 
years  were  over.  u Nescio  quid  est  materia 
cum  me,”  Sterne  writes  to  one  of  his  friends 
(in  dog-Latin,  and  very  sad  dog-Latin  too)  ; 
“ sed  sum  fatigatus  et  aegrotus  de  mea  uxore 
plus  quam  unquam  ” : which  means,  I am  sorry 
to  say,  64  I don’t  know  what  is  the  matter 
with  me  ; but  I am  more  tired  and  sick  of  my 
wife  than  ever.”  * 


* “My  wife  returns  to  Toulouse,  and  proposes  to  pass  the 
summer  at  Bagnercs.  I,  on  the  contrary,  go  and  visit  my  wife, 
the  church,  in  Yorkshire.  We  all  live  the  longer,  at  least  the 
happier,  for  having  things  our  own  way;  this  is  my  conjugal 
maxim.  I own ’t  is  not  the  best  of  maxims,  but  I maintain  ’tis 
pot  the  worst.”  — Sterne’s  Letters  ; 20th  January,  1764. 


stebNe  and  goldsmith ; 


253 


This  to  be  sure  was  five-and-twenty  years 
after  Laurey  had  been  overcome  by  her  gener- 
osity and  she  by  Laurey ’s  love.  Then  he 
wrote  to  her  of  the  delights  of  marriage,  say- 
ing, “ We  will  be  as  merry  and  as  innocent  as 
our  first  parents  in  Paradise,  before  the  arch 
fiend  entered  that  indescribable  scene.  The 
kindest  affections  will  have  room  to  expand  in 
our  retirement : let  the  human  tempest  and 
hurricane  rage  at  a distance,  the  desolation  is 
beyond  the  horizon  of  peace.  My  L.  has 
seen  a polyanthus  blow  in  December  ? — Some 
friendly  wall  has  sheltered  it  from  the  biting- 
wind.  No  planetary  influence  shall  reach  us, 
but  that  which  presides  and  cherishes  the 
sweetest  flowers.  The  gloomy  family  of  care 
and  distrust  shall  be  banished  from  our  dwell- 
ing, guarded  by  thy  kind  and  tutelar  deity. 
We  will  sing  our  choral  songs  of  gratitude  and 
rejoice  to  the  end  of  our  pilgrimage.  Adieu, 
my  L.  Return  to  one  who  languishes  for  thy 
society! — As  I take  up  my  pen,  my  poor 
pulse  quickens,  my  pale  face  glows,  and  tears 
are  trickling  down  on  my  paper  as  I trace  the 
word  L.” 

And  it  is  about  this  woman,  with  whom  he 
finds  no  fault  but  that  she  bores  him,  that  our 
philanthropist  writes,  u Sum  fatigatus  et  segro- 
tus  ” — Sum  mortcditer  in  amove  with  some- 
body else ! That  fine  flower  of  love,  that 
polyanthus  over  which  Sterne  snivelled  so 
many  tears,  could  not  last  for  a quarter  of  a 
century ! 

Or  rather  it  could  not  be  expected  that 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


2U 

gentlemen  with  such  a fountain  at  command 
should  keep  it  to  arroser  one  homely  old  lady, 
when  a score  of  younger  and  prettier  people 
might  be  refreshed  from  the  same  gushing 
source.*  It  was  in  December,  1767,  that  the 
Rev.  Laurence  Sterne,  the  famous  Shandean, 
the  charming  Yorick,  the  delight  of  the  fash- 
ionable world,  the  delicious  divine,  for  whose 
sermons  the  whole  polite  world  was  subscrib- 


* In  a collection  of  “Seven  Letters  by  Sterne  and  his 
Friends  ” (printed  for  private  circulation  in  1844),  is  a letter  of 
M.  Tollot,  who  was  in  France  with  Sterne  and  his  family  in 
1764.  Here  is  a paragraph : — 

“ Nous  arrivames  le  lendemain  & Montpellier,  oil  nous  trou- 
vames  notre  ami  Mr.  Sterne,  sa  femme,  sa  fille,  Mr.  Huet,  et 
quelques  autres  Anglaises.  J’eus,  je  vous  l’avoue,  beaucoup  de 
plaisir  en  revoyant  le  bon  et  agr6able  Tristram.  ...  II  avait 
et4  assez  longtemps  & Toulouse,  oil  il  se  serait  amuse  sans  sa 
femme,  qui  le  poursuivit  partout,  et  qui  voulait  etre  de  tout. 
Ces  dispositions  dans  cette  bonne  dame  lui  ont  fait  passer 
d’assez  mauvais  momens;  il  supporte  tous  ces  desagremens  avec 
une  patience  d’ange.” 

About  four  months  after  this  very  characteristic  letter, 
Sterne  wrote  to  the  same  gentleman  to  whom  Tollot  had  written ; 
and  from  his  letter  we  may  extract  a companion  paragraph  : — 

“ . . . All  which  being  premised,  I have  been  for  eight 
weeks  smitten  with  the  tenderest  passion  that  ever  tender 
wight  underwent.  I wish,  dear  cousin,  thou  couldst  conceive 
(perhaps  thou  canst  without  my  wishing  it)  how  judiciously 
I cantered  away  with  it  the  first  month,  two  up,  two  down, 
always  upon  my  hanches , along  the  streets  from  my  hotel  to 
hers,  at  first  once,  then  twice,  then  three  times  a day,  till  at 
length  I was  within  an  ace  of  setting  up  my  hobby-horse  in  her 
stable  for  good  and  all.  I might  as  well,  considering  how  the 
enemies  of  the  Lord  have  blasphemed  thereupon.  The  last 
three  weeks  we  were  every  hour  upon  the  doleful  ditty  of  part- 
ing; and  thou  mayst  conceive,  dear  cousin,  how  it  altered  my 
gait  and  air  : for  I went  and  came  like  any  louden’d  carl,  and 
did  nothing  but  jouer  (les  sentimens  with  her  from  sun-rising 
even  to  the  setting  of  the  same ; and  now  she  is  gone  to  the 
South  of  France;  and  to  finish  the  comedie,  I fell  ill  and  broke 
a vessel  in  my  lungs,  and  half  bled  to  death.  Voila  mon 
histoire!  ” 

Whether  husband  or  wife  had  most  of  the  ** patience 
d'ange  ” may  be  uncertain;  but  there  can  be  no  doubt  which 
needed  it  most ! 


STERNE  AND  GOLDSMITH 


255 


ing,*  the  occupier  of  Rabelais’s  easy-chair, 
only  fresh  stuffed  and  more  elegant  than  when 
in  possession  of  the  cynical  old  curate  of 
Meudon,f  — the  more  than  rival  of  the  Dean 
of  St.  Patrick’s,  wrote  the  above-quoted  re- 
spectable letter  to  his  friend  in  London  : and 
it  was  in  April  of  the  same  year  that  he  saw 
pouring  out  his  fond  heart  to  Mrs.  Elizabeth 


* “ ‘ Tristram  Shandy  ’ is  still  a greater  object  of  admiration, 
the  man  as  well  as  the  book  : one  is  invited  to  dinner,  where  he 
dines,  a fortnight  before.  As  to  the  volumes  yet  published, 
there  is  much  good  fun  in  them  and  humor  sometimes  hit  and 
sometimes  missed.  Have  you  read  his  ‘ Sermons,’  with  his 
own  comick  figure,  from  a painting  by  Reynolds,  at  the  head  of 
them  ? They  are  in  the  style  I think  most  proper  for  the  pulpit, 
and  show  a strong  imagination  and  a sensible  heart;  but  you 
see  him  often  tottering  on  the  verge  of  laughter,  and  ready  to 
throw  his  periwig  in  the  face  of  the  audience.”  — Gray’s 
Letters:  June  22nd,  1760. 

“ Tt  having  been  observed  that  there  was  little  hospitality  in 
London  — Johnson  : * Nay,  sir,  any  man  who  has  a name,  or  who 
has  the  power  of  pleasing,  will  be  very  generally  invited  in  Lon- 
don.  The  man,  Sterne,  I have  been  told,  has  had  engagements 
for  three  months.’  Goldsmith  : ‘And  a very  dull  fellow.’  John- 
son : ‘ Why,  no,  sir.’  ” — Boswell’s  Life  of  Johnson, 

“Her  [Miss  Monckton’s]  vivacity  enchanted  the  sage,  and 
they  used  to  talk  together  with  all  imaginable  ease.  A singular 
instance  happened  one  evening,  when  she  insisted  that  some  of 
Sterne’s  writings  were  very  pathetic.  Johnson  bluntly  denied  it. 
‘ I am  sure,’ said  she,  ‘ they  have  affected  me.*  ‘ Why,’ said  John- 
son, smiling,  and  rolling  himself  about,  ‘that  is,  because,  dear- 
est, you  ’re  a dunce.*  When  she  some  time  afterwards  mentioned 
this  to  him,  he  said  with  equal  truth  and  politeness,  ‘ Madam,  if 
I had  thought  so,  I certainly  should  not  have  said  it.*  ” —Ibid. 

t A passage  or  two  from  Sterne’s  “ Sermons  ” may  not  be 
without  interest  here.  Is  not  the  following,  levelled  against  the 
cruelties  of  the  Church  of  Rome,  stamped  with  the  autograph, 
of  the  author  of  the  “ Sentimental  Journey  ”?  — 

“ To  be  convinced  of  this,  go  with  me  for  a moment  into  the 
prisons  of  the  Inquisition  — behold  religion  with  mercy  and 
justice  chained  down  under  her  feet,  — there,  sitting  ghastly 
upon  a black  tribunal,  propped  up  with  racks,  and  instruments 
of  torment.  — Hark  ! — what  a piteous  groan  ! — See  the  melan. 
choly  wretch  who  uttered  it,  just  brought  forth  to  undergo  the 
anguish  of  a mock-trial,  and  endure  the  utmost  pain  that  a 
studied  system  of  religious  cruelty  has  been  able  to  invent. 
Behold  this  helpless  victim  delivered  up  to  his  tormentors.  His 
body  so  wasted  with  sorrow  and  long  confinement , you  ’ll  see 


256 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS . 


Draper,  wife  of  44  Daniel  Draper,  Esq.,  Coun- 
cillor of  Bombay,  and,  in  1775,  chief  of  the 
factory  of  Surat  — a gentleman  very  much 
respected  in  that  quarter  of  the  globe.” 

44 1 got  thy  letter  last  night,  Eliza,”  Sterne 
writes,  44  on  my  return  from  Lord  Bathurst’s, 
where  I dined  ” — (the  letter  has  this  merit  in 
it,  that  it  contains  a pleasant  reminiscence  of 


every  nerve  and  muscle  as  it  suffers.  — Observe  the  last  move- 
ment of  that  horrid  engine.  — What  convulsions  it  has  thrown 
him  into!  Consider  the  nature  of  the  posture  in  which  he  now 
lies  stretched.  — What  exquisite  torture  he  endures  by  it!  — 
*T  is  all  nature  can  bear.  — Good  God!  see  how  it  keeps  his 
weary  soul  hanging  upon  his  trembling  lips,  willing  to  take  its 
leave,  but  not  suffered  to  depart.  Behold  the  unhappy  wretch 
led  back  to  his  cell,  dragg’d  out  of  it  again  to  meet  the  flames  — 
and  the  insults  in  his  last  agonies,  which  this  principle  — this 
principle,  that  there  can  be  religion  without  morality  — has  pre- 
pared for  him.”  — Sermon  21th. 

The  next  extract  is  preached  on  a text  to  be  found  in  Judges 
xix.  vv.  1,  2,  3,  concerning  a “ certain  Levite  ” : — 

“ Such  a one  the  Levite  wanted  to  share  his  solitude  and  fill 
up  that  uncomfortable  blank  in  the  heart  in  such  a situation  : for, 
notwithstanding  all  we  meet  with  in  books,  in  many  of  -which, 
no  doubt,  there  are  a good  many  handsome  things  said  upon  the 


man  to  be  alone':  nor  can  all  w 

stuns  our  ears  with  upon  the  subject,  ever  give  one  answer  of 
satisfaction  to  the  mind  ; in  the  midst  of  the  loudest  vauntings 
of  philosophy,  nature  will  have  her  yearnings  for  society  and 
friendship;  — a good  heart  wants  some  object  to  be  kind  to; 
and  the  best  parts  of  our  blood,  and  the  purest  of  our  spirits, 
suffer  most  under  the  destitution. 

“ Let  the  torpid  monk  seek  Heaven  comfortless  and  alone. 
God  speed  him!  For  my  own  part,  I fear  1 should  never  so 
find  the  way  : let  me  be  wise  and  religous , but  let  me  be  Man; 
wherever  thy  Providence  places  me,  or  whatever  be  the  road  I 
take  to  Thee,  give  me  some  companion  in  my  journey,  be  it  only 
to  remark  to,  ‘How  our  shadows  lengthen  as  our  sun  goes 
down  ’ ; — to  whom  I may  say,  ‘ How  fresh  is  the  face  of  Nature ; 
how  sweet  the  flowers  of  the  field!  how  delicious  are  these 
fruits ! ’ ” — Sermon  18 th. 

The  first  of  these  passages  gives  ns  another  drawing  of  the 
famous  “ Captive.”  The  second  shows  that  the  same  reflection 
was  suggested  to  the  Rev.  Laurence  by  a text  in  Judges  as  by 
the  fille-de-chambre. 


Iterne’s  Sermons  were  published  as  those  of  **  Mr.  Yoriek." 


sweets  of  retirement,  etc. 


STEBNE  AND  GOLDSMITH. 


257 


better  men  than  Sterne,  and  introduces  us  to  a 
portrait  of  a kind  old  gentleman)  — u I got  thy 
letter  last  night,  Eliza,  on  my  return  from 
Lord  Bathurst’s  ; and  where  I was  heard  — as 
I talked  of  thee  an  hour  without  intermission 
— with  so  much  pleasure  and  attention,  that 
the  good  old  Lord  toasted  your  health  three 
different  times ; and  now  he  is  in  his  eighty- 
fifth  year,  says  he  hopes  to  live  long  enough  to 
be  introduced  as  a friend  to  my  fair  Indian 
disciple,  and  to  see  her  eclipse  all  other 
Nabobesses  as  much  in  wealth  as  she  does 
already  in  exterior  and,  what  is  far  better  ” 
(for  Sterne  is  nothing  without  his  morality), 
“ in  interior  merit.  This  nobleman  is  an  old 
friend  of  mine.  You  know  he  was  always  the 
protector  of  men  of  wit  and  genius,  and  hr.s 
had  those  of  the  last  century,  Addison,  Steele, 
Pope,  Swift,  Prior,  etc.,  always  at  his  table. 
The  manner  in  which  his  notice  began  of  me 
was  as  singular  as  it  was  polite.  He  came  up 
to  me  one  day  as  I was  at  the  Princess  of 
Wales’s  court,  and  said,  4 1 want  to  know  you, 
Mr.  Sterne,  but  it  is  fit  you  also  should  know 
who  it  is  that  wishes  this  pleasure.  You  have 
heard  of  an  old  Lord  Bathurst,  of  whom  your 
Popes  and  Swifts  have  sung  and  spoken  so 
much?  I have  lived  my  life  with  geniuses  of 
that  cast ; but  have  survived  them ; and, 
despairing  ever  to  find  their  equals,  it  is  some 
years  since  I have  shut  up  my  books  and 
closed  my  accounts ; but  you  have  kindled  a 
desire  in  me  of  opening  them  once  more  before 
I die  : which  I now  do  : so  go  home  and  dine 
17 


258 


English  iiumobists. 


with  me.’  This  nobleman,  I say,  is  a prodigy, 
for  he  has  all  the  wit  and  promptness  of  a 
man  of  thirty  ; a disposition  to  be  pleased  and 
a power  to  please  others,  beyond  whatever  I 
knew : added  to  which  a man  of  learning, 
courtesy,  and  feeling. 

u He  heard  me  talk  of  thee,  Eliza,  with  un- 
common satisfaction  — for  there  was  only  a 
third  person,  and  of  sensibility , with  us  : and 
a most  sentimental  afternoon  till  nine  o’clock 
have  we  passed  ! * But  thou,  Eliza,  wert  the 
star  that  conducted  and  enlivened  the  dis- 
course ! And  when  I talked  not  of  thee,  still 
didst  thou  fill  my  mind,  and  warm  every  thought 
I uttered,  for  I am  not  ashamed  to  acknowledge 
I greatly  miss  thee.  Best  of  all  good  girls  ! 
— the  sufferings  I have  sustained  all  night  in 
consequence  of  thine,  Eliza,  are  beyond  the 
power  of  words.  . . . And  so  thou  hast  fixed 
thy  Brainin’ s portrait  over  thy  writing-desk, 
and  wilt  consult  it  in  all  doubts  and  difficulties. 


* “ I am  glad  that  you  are  in  love : ’t  will  cure  you  at  least 
of  the  spleen,  which  has  a bad  effect  on  both  man  and  woman. 
1 myself  must  ever  have  some  Dulcinea  in  my  head  ; it  harmo- 
nizes the  soul;  and  in  these  cases  I first  endeavor  to  make  thj 
lady  believe  so,  or  rather,  I begin  first  to  make  myself  believe 
that  I am  in  love ; but  I carry  on  my  affairs  quite  in  the  French 
way,  sentimentally  : ‘ V amour?  say  they,  ‘ n'est  rien  sans  senti- 
mentNow,  notwithstanding  they  make  such  a pother  about 
the  word , they  have  no  precise  idea  annexed  to  it.  And  so 
much  for  that  same  subject  called  love.”  — Sterne’s  Letters  : 
May  23,  1765. 

“P.  S.  — My  * Sentimental  Journey’  will  please  Mrs.  J 

and  my  Lydia  ” [his  daughter,  afterwards  Mrs.  Medalle] : “ I 
can  answer  for  those  two.  It  is  a subject  which  works  well, 
and  suits  the  frame  of  mind  I have  been  in  for  some  time  past. 
I told  you  my  design  in  it  was  to  teach  us  to  love  the  world  and 
our  fellow-creatures  better  than  we  do  — so  it  runs  most  upon 
those  gentler  passions  and  affections  which  aid  so  much  to  it,” 
— Letters  [1767]. 


STEBNE  AND  GOLD  SMITE . 259 

Grateful  and  good  girl ! Yorick  smiles  con- 
tentedly over  all  thou  dost ; his  picture  does 
not  do  justice  to  his  own  complacency.  I am 
glad  your  shipmates  are  friendly  beings  ” 
(Eliza  was  at  Deal,  going  back  to  the  Coun- 
cillor at  Bombay,  and  indeed  it  was  high  time 
she  should  be  off) . 4 4 You  could  least  dispense 

with  what  is  contrary  to  your  own  nature, 
which  is  soft  and  gentle,  Eliza ; it  would 
civilize  savages  — though  pity  were  it  thou 
shouldst  be  tainted  with  the  office.  Write  to 
me,  my  child,  thy  delicious  letters.  Let  them 
speak  the  easy  carelessness  of  a heart  that 
opens  itself  anyhow,  everyhow.  Such,Eiza,I 
write  to  thee  ! ” (The  artless  rogue,  of  course 
he  did  !)  44  And  so  I should  ever  love  thee, 

most  artlessly,  most  affectionately,  if  Provi- 
dence permitted  thy  residence  in  the  same 
section  of  the  globe  : for  I am  all  that  honor 
and  affection  can  make  me  4 Thy  Bramin.’  ” 
The  Bramin  continues  addressing  Mrs. 
Draper  until  the  departure  of  the  44  Earl  of 
Chatham  ” Indiaman  from  Deal,  on  the  2d  of 
April,  1767.  He  is  amiably  anxious  about  the 
fresh  paint  for  Eliza’s  cabin  ; he  is  uncom- 
monly solicitous  about  her  companions  on 
board:  44 1 fear  the  best  of  your  shipmates 
are  only  genteel  by  comparison  with  the  con- 
trasted crew  with  which  thou  belioldest  them. 
So  was  — you  know  who  — from  the  same  fal- 
lacy which  was  put  upon  your  judgment  when 
— but  I will  not  mortify  you  ! ” 

44  You  know  who”  was,  of  course,  Daniel 
Draper,  Esq.,  of  Bombay — a gentleman  very 


260 


ENGLISH  II UM OBIS  TS. 


much  respected  in  that  quarter  of  the  globe, 
and  about  whose  probable  health  our  worthy 
Bramin  writes  with  delightful  candor  : — 
u I honor  you,  Eliza,  for  keeping  secret 
some  things  which,  if  explained,  had  been  a 
panegyric  on  yourself.  There  is  a dignity  in 
venerable  affliction  which  will  not  allow  it  to 
appeal  to  the  world  for  pity  or  redress.  Well 
have  you  supported  that  character,  my  ami- 
able, my  philosophic  friend  ! And,  indeed,  I 
begin  to  think  you  have  as  many  virtues  as 
my  Uncle  Toby’s  widow.  Talking  of  widows 
— pray,  Eliza,  if  ever  you  are  such,  do  not 
think  of  giving  yourself  to  some  wealthy  Na- 
bob, because  I design  to  marry  you  myself. 
My  wife  cannot  live  long,  and  I know  not  the 
woman  I should  like  so  well  for  her  substi- 
tute as  yourself.  ’T  is  true  I am  ninety-five 
in  constitution,  and  you  but  tweffly-five  ; but 
what  I want  in  youth,  I will  make  up  in  wit 
and  good-humor.  Not  Swift  so  loved  his 
Stella,  Scarron  his  Maintenon,  or  Waller  his 
Saccharissa.  Tell  me,  in  answer  to  this,  that 
you  approve  and  honor  the  proposal.” 

Approve  and  honor  the  proposal ! The 
coward  was  writing  gay  letters  to  his  friends 
this  while,  with  sneering  allusions  to  this  poor 
foolish  Brcimine.  Her  shipwras  not  out  of  the 
Downs  and  the  charming  Sterne  was  at  the 
u Mount  Coffee-house,”  with  a sheet  of  gilt- 
edged  paper  before  him,  offering  that  precious 

treasure  his  heart  to  Lady  P , asking 

whether  it  gave  her  pleasure  to  see  him  un- 
happy ; whether  it  added  to  her  triumph  that 


STERNE  AND  GOLDSMITH. 


261 


her  eyes  and  lips  had  turned  a man  into  a 
fool ; — quoting  the  Lord’s  Prayer,  with  a 
horrible  baseness  of  blasphemy,  as  a proof 
that  he  had  desired  not  to  be  led  into  tempta- 
tion, and  swearing  himself  the  most  tender 
and  sincere  fool  in  the  world.  It  was  from 
his  home  at  Coxwould  that  he  wrote  the  Latin 
Letter,  which,  I suppose,  he  was  ashamed  to 
put  into  English.  I find  in  my  copy  of  the 
Letters,  that  there  is  a note  of  I can’t  call  it 
admiration,  at  Letter  112,  which  seems  to 
announce  that  there  was  a No.  3 to  whom  the 
wretched  worn-out  old  scamp  was  paying  his 
addresses  ; * and  the  year  after,  having  come 
back  to  his  lodgings  in  Bond  Street,  with  his 
6 4 Sentimental  Journey”  to  launch  upon  the 
town,  eager  as  ever  for  praise  and  pleasure  — 


*“To  Mrs.  H . 

“ Coxwould,  Nov.  15, 176T. 

“ Now  be  a good  dear  woman,  my  H , and  execute  those 

commissions  well,  and  when  I see  you  I will  give  you  a kiss  — 
there *s  for  you ! But  I have  something  else  for  you  which  I am 
fabricating  at  a great  rate,  and  that  is  my  ‘ Sentimental  Journey,* 
which  shall  make  you  cry  as  much  as  it  has  affected  me,  or  I will 
give  up  the  business  of  sentimental  writing.  . . . 

“ I am  yours,  etc.,  etc., 

“T.  Shandy.” 

“To  the  Earl  of 

“ Coxwould,  Nov.  28, 1767. 

“ My  Lord , — *T  is  with  the  greatest  pleasure  I take  my  pen 
to  thank  your  lordship  for  your  letter  of  inquiry  about  Yorick  : 
he  was  worn  out,  both  his  spirits  and  body,  with  the  ‘ Sentimental 
Journey.’  ’Tis  true,  then,  an  author  must  feel  himself,  or  his 
reader  will  not;  but  I have  torn  my  whole  frame  into  pieces  by 
my  feelings  : I believe  the  brain  stands  as  much  in  need  of  recruit- 
ing as  the  body.  Therefore  I shall  set  out  for  town  the  twentieth 
of  next  month,  after  having  recruited  myself  a week  at  York.  I 
might  indeed  solace  myself  with  my  wife  (who  is  come  from 
France) ; but,  in  fact,  I have  long  been  a sentimental  being,  what- 
ever your  lordship  may  think  to  the  contrary.” 


262 


ENGLISH  HTJMOBISTS. 


as  vain,  as  wicked,  as  witty,  as  false  as  he 
had  ever  been  — death  at  length  seized  the 
feeble  wretch,  and  on  the  18th  of  March, 
1768,  that  u bale  of  cadaverous  goods/’  as  he 
calls  his  body,  was  consigned  to  Pluto.*  In 
his  last  letter  there  is  one  sign  of  grace  — the 
real  affection  with  which  he  entreats  a friend 
to  be  a guardian  to  his  daughter  Lydia.  All 
his  letters  to  her  are  artless,  kind,  affection- 
ate, and  not  sentimental ; as  a hundred  pages 
in  his  writings  are  beautiful,  and  full,  not  of 
surprising  humor  merely,  but  of  genuine  love 
and  kindness.  A perilous  trade,  indeed,  is 
that  of  a man  who  has  to  bring  his  tears  and 
laughter,  his  recollections,  his  personal  griefs 
and  joys,  his  private  thoughts  and  feelings  to 
market  to  write  them  on  paper,  and  sell  them 
for  money.  Does  he  exaggerate  his  grief,  so 


*“  In  February,  1768,  Laurence  Sterne,  his  frame  exhausted 
by  long  debilitating  illness,  expired  at  his  lodgings  in  Bond  Street, 
London.  There  was  something  in  the  manner  of  his  death  sin- 
gularly resembling  the  particulars  detailed  by  Mrs.  Quickly  as 
attending  that  of  Falstajf  the  compeer  of  Yorick  for  infinite  jest, 
however  unlike  in  other  particulars.  As  he  lay  on  his  bed  totally 
exhausted,  he  complained  that  his  feet  were  cold,  and  requested 
the  female  attendant  to  chafe  them.  She  did  so,  and  it  seemed 
to  relieve  him.  He  complained  that  the  cold  came  up  higher; 
and  whilst  the  assistant  was  in  the  act  of  chafing  his  ankles  and 
legs,  he  expired  without  a groan.  It  was  also  remarkable  that 
his  death  took  place  much  in  the  manner  which  he  himself  had 
wished;  and  that  the  last  offices  were  rendeied  him,  not  in  his 
own  house,  or  by  the  hand  of  kindred  affection,  but  in  an  inn, 
and  by  strangers. 

“ We  are  well  acquainted  with  Sterne’s  features  and  personal 
appearance,  to  which  he  himself  frequently  alludes.  He  was  tall 
and  thin,  with  a hectic  and  consumptive  appearance.”  — Sir 
Walter  Scott. 

“It  is  known  that  Sterne  died  in  hired  lodgings,  and  I have 
been  told  that  his  attendants  robbed  him  even  of  his  gold  sleeve- 
buttons  while  he  was  expiring.”  — Dr.  Ferriar. 

“He  died  a!  No.  41,  now  a cheesemonger’s  on  the  west  side 
of  Old  Bond  Street,”  — Handbook  of  London. 


STERNE  AND  GOLDSMITH. 


263 


as  to  get  his  reader’s  pity  for  a false  sensi- 
bility ? feign  indignation,  so  as  to  establish  a 
character  for  virtue?  elaborate  repartees,  so 
that  he  may  pass  for  a wit  ? steal  from  other 
authors,  and  put  down  the  theft  to  the  credit 
side  of  his  own  reputation  for  ingenuity  and 
learning?  feign  originality?  affect  benevo- 
lence or  misanthropy?  appeal  to  the  gallery 
gods  with  claptraps  and  vulgar  baits  to  catch 
applause  ? 

How  much  of  the  paint  and  emphasis  is 
necessary  for  the  fair  business  of  the  stage, 
and  how  much  of  the  rant  and  rouge  is  put  on 
for  the  vanity  of  the  actor?  His  audience 
trusts  him  : can  he  trust  himself  ? How  much 
was  deliberate  calculation  and  imposture  — 
how  much  was  false  sensibility  — and  how 
much  true  feeling  ? Where  did  the  lie  begin, 
and  did  he  know  where?  and  where  did  the 
truth  end  in  the  art  and  scheme  of  this  man  of 
genius,  this  actor,  this  quack  ? Some  time 
since,  I was  in  the  company  of  a French  actor 
who  began  after  dinner,  and  at  his  own  re- 
quest, to  sing  French  songs  of  the  sort  called 
des  chansons  gricoises , and  which  he  performed 
admirably,  and  to  the  dissatisfaction  of  most 
persons  present.  Having  finished  these,  he 
commenced  a sentimental  ballad ; it  was  so 
charmingly  sung,  that  it  touched  all  persons 
present,  and  especially  the  singer  himself, 
whose  voice  trembled,  whose  eyes  filled  with 
emotion,  and  who  was  snivelling  and  weeping 
quite  genuine  tears  by  the  time  his  own  ditty 
was  over,  I suppose  Sterne  had  this  artisti- 


264 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


cal  sensibility  ; lie  used  to  blubber  perpetually 
in  his  study,  and  finding  his  tears  infectious, 
and  that  they  brought  him  a great  popularity, 
he  exercised  the  lucrative  gift  of  weeping : 
he  utilized  it,  and  cried  on  every  occasion. 
I own  that  I don’t  value  or  respect  much 
the  cheap  dribble  of  those  fountains.  He 
fatigues  me  with  his  perpetual  disquiet  and 
his  uneasy  appeals  to  my  risible  or  sentimental 
faculties.  He  is  always  looking  in  my  face, 
watching  his  effect,  uncertain  whether  I think 
him  an  impostor  or  not ; posture-making, 
coaxing,  and  imploring  me.  u See  what  sen- 
sibility I have  — own  now  that  I’m  very 
clever — do  cry  now,  you  can’t  resist  this.” 
The  humor  of  Swift  and  Rabelais,  whom  he 
pretended  to  succeed,  poured  from  them  as 
naturally  as  song  does  from  a bird  ; they  lose 
no  manly  dignity  with  it,  but  laugh  their 
hearty  great  laugh  out  of  their  broad  chests 
as  nature  bade  them.  But  this  man  — who 
can  make  you  laugh,  who  can  make  you  cry 
too — -never  lets  his  reader  alone,  or  will  per- 
mit his  audience  repose  : when  you  are  quiet, 
he  fancies  he  must  rouse  you,  and  turns 
over  head  and  heels,  or  sidles  up  and  whis- 
pers a nasty  story.  The  man  is  a great  jester, 
not  a great  humorist.  He  goes  to  work  sys- 
tematically and  of  cold  blood  ; paints  his  face, 
puts  on  his  ruff  and  motley  clothes,  and  lays 
down  his  carpet  and  tumbles  on  it. 

For  instance,  take  the  u Sentimental  Jour- 
ney,” and  see  in  the  writer  the  deliberate  pro- 
pensity to  make  points  and  seek  applause.  He 


STERNE  AND  GOLDSMITH. 


265 


gets  to  44  Dessein’s  Hotel,1 ” lie  wants  a carriage 
to  travel  to  Paris,  he  goes  to  the  inn-yard, 
and  begins  wlnt  the  actors  call  44  business” 
at  once.  There  is  that  little  carriage  (the 
desobligeanie) . 44  Four  months  had  elapsed 

since  it  had  finished  it  careers  of  Europe  in 
the  corner  of  Monsieur  Dessein’s  coach-yard, 
and  having  sallied  out  thence  but  a vamped- 
up  business  at  first,  though  it  had  been  twice 
taken  to  pieces  on  Mont  Cenis,  it  had  not 
profited  much  by  its  adventures,  but  by  none 
so  little  as  the  standing  so  many  months  un- 
pitied in  the  corner  of  Monsieur  Dessein’s 
coach-yard.  Much,  indeed,  wras  not  to  be 
said  for  it  — but  something  might  — and  when 
a few  words  will  rescue  misery  out  of  her 
distress,  I hate  the  man  who  can  be  a churl 
of  them.” 

Le  t ,ur  est  fait ! Paillasse  has  tumbled ! 
Paillasse  has  jumped  over  the  desobligeante, 
cleared  it,  hood  and  all,  and  bows  to  the  noble 
company.  Does  anybody  believe  that  this  is  a 
real  Sentiment?  that  this  luxury  of  generosity, 
this  gallant  rescue  of  Misery  — out  of  an  old 
cab,  is  genuine  feeling?  It  is  as  genuine  as 
the  virtuous  oratory  of  Joseph  Surface  when 
he  begins,  44  The  man  who,”  etc.,  etc.,  and 
wishes  to  pass  off  for  a saint  with  his  credu- 
lous, good-humored  dupes. 

Our  friend  purchases  the  carriage : after 
turning  that  notorious  old  monk  to  good 
account,  and  effecting  (like  a soft  and  good- 
natured  Paillasse  as  he  was,  and  very  free 
with  his  money  when  he  had  it)  an  exchange 


266 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. . 


of  snuff-boxes  with  the  old  Franciscan,  jogs 
out  of  Calais  ; sets  down  in  immense  figures 
on  the  credit  side  of  his  account  the  sous  he 
gives  away  to  the  Montreuil  beggars  ; and,  at 
Nampont,  gets  out  of  the  chaise  and  whim- 
pers over  that  famous  dead  donkey,  for  which 
any  sentimentalist  may  cry  who  will.  It  is 
agreeably  and  skilfully  done  — that  dead  jack- 
ass : like  M.  de  Soubise’s  cook  on  the  cam- 
paign, Sterne  dresses  it,  and  serves  it  up 
quite  tender  and  with  a very  piquante  sauce. 
But  tears  and  fine  feelings,  and  a white 
pocket  handkerchief,  and  a funeral  sermon, 
and  horses  and  feathers,  and  a procession  of 
mutes,  and  a hearse  with  a dead  donkey  in- 
side ! Psha,  mountebank  ! I ’ll  not  give  thee 
one  penny  more  for  that  trick,  donkey  and  all ! 

This  donkey  had  appeared  once  before  with 
signal  effect.  In  1765,  three  years  before  the 
publication  of  the  “ Sentimental  Journey,”  the 
seventh  and  eighth  volumes  of  u Tristram 
Shandy”  were  given  to  the  world,  and  the 
famous  Lyons  donkey  makes  his  entry  in 
those  volumes  (pp.  315,  316)  : — 

u ’T  was  by  a poor  ass,  with  a couple  of 
large  panniers  at  his  back,  who  had  just 
turned  in  to  collect  eleemosynary  turnip-tops 
and  cabbage-leaves,  and  stood  dubious,  with 
his  two  forefeet  at  the  inside  of  the  threshold, 
and  with  his  two  hinder  feet  towards  the 
street,  as  not  knowing  very  well  whether  he 
was  to  go  in  or  no. 

44  Now ’t  is  an  animal  (be  in  what  hurry  I 
may)  I cannot  bear  to  strike : there  is  a 


STERNE  AND  GOLDSMITH. 


267 


patient  endurance  of  suffering  wrote  so  un- 
affectedly in  his  looks  and  carriage  which 
pleads  so  mightily  for  him,  that  it  always  dis- 
arms me,  and  to  that  degree  that  I do  not  like 
to  speak  unkindly  to  him  : on  the  contrary, 
meet  him  where  I will,  whether  in  town  or 
country,  in  cart  or  under  panniers,  whether  in 
liberty  or  bondage,  I have  ever  something  civil 
to  say  to  him  on  my  part ; and,  as  one  word 
begets  another  (if  he  has  as  little  to  do  as  I), 
I generally  fall  into  conversation  with  him ; 
and  surely  never  is  my  imagination  so  busy  as 
in  framing  responses  from  the  etchings  of  his 
countenance  ; and  where  those  carry  me  not 
deep  enough,  in  flying  from  my  own  heart  into 
his,  and  seeing  what  is  natural  for  an  ass  to 
think  — as  well  as  a man,  upon  the  occasion. 
In  truth,  it  is  the  only  creature  of  all  the 
classes  of  beings  below  me  with  whom  I can 
do  this.  . . . With  an  ass  I can  commune 
forever. 

44  4 Come,  Honesty,’  said  I,  seeing  it  was 
impracticable  to  pass  betwixt  him  and  the 
gate,  ‘art  thou  for  coming  in  or  going  out?’ 

44  The  ass  twisted  his  head  round  to  look  up 
the  street. 

44  6 Well ! ’ replied  I,  4 we  ’ll  wait  a minute 
for  thy  driver.’ 

44  He  turned  his  head  thoughtful  about,  and 
looked  wistfully  the  opposite  way. 

4 4 4 1 understand  thee  perfectly,’  answered  I : 
4 if  thou  takest  a wrong  step  in  this  affair,  he 
will  cudgel  thee  to  death.  Well ! a minute  is 
but  a minute  ; and  if  it  gayes  a fellow-creature 


268 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


a drubbing,  it  shall  not  be  set  down  as  ill- 
spent/ 

44  He  was  eating  the  stem  of  an  artichoke 
as  this  discourse  went  on,  and,  in  the  little 
peevish  contentions  between  hunger  and  unsa- 
voriness,  had  dropped  it  out  of  his  mouth  half 
a dozen  times,  and  had  picked  it  up  again. 
4 God  help  thee,  Jack  ! ’ said  I,  4 thou  hast  a 
bitter  breakfast  on  ’t,  and  many  a bitter  day’s 
labor,  and  many  a bitter  blow,  I fear,  for  its 
wages ! ’T  is  all,  all  bitterness  to  thee  — 
whatever  life  is  to  others ! And  now  thy 
mouth,  if  one  knew  the  truth  of  it,  is  as  bitter, 
I dare  say,  as  soot’  (for  he  had  cast  aside  the 
stem),  4 and  thou  hast  not  a friend  perhaps  in 
all  this  world  that  will  give  thee  a macaroon.’ 
In  saying  this,  I pulled  out  a paper  of  ’em, 
which  I had  just  bought,  and  gave  him  one  ; 
and,  at  this  moment  that  I am  telling  it, 
my  heart  smites  me  that  there  was  more  of 
pleasantry  in  the  conceit  of  seeing  liow  an  ass 
would  eat  a macaroon,  than  of  benevolence  in 
giving  him  one,  which  presided  in  the  act. 

44  When  the  ass  had  eaten  his  macaroon,  I 
pressed  him  to  come  in.  The  poor  beast  was 
heavy  loaded  — his  legs  seemed  to  tremble 
under  him  — he  hung  rather  backwards,  and, 
as  I pulled  at  his  halter,  it  broke  in  my  hand. 
He  looked  up  pensive  in  my  face : 4 Don’t 
thrash  me  with  it ; but  if  vou  will  you  may.’ 
4 If  I do,’  said  I,  4 1 ’ll  be  d .’  ” 

A critic  who  refuses  to  see  in  this  charming 
description  wit,  humor,  pathos,  a kind  nature 
speaking,  and  a real  sentiment,  must  be  hard 


STERNE  AND  GOLDSMITH. 


269 


indeed  to  move  and  to  please.  A page  or  two 
farther  we  come  to  a description  not  less  beau- 
tiful — a landscape  and  figures,  deliciously 
painted  by  one  who  had  the  keenest  enjoyment 
and  the  most  tremulous  sensibility  : — 

UT  was  in  the  road  between  Nismes  and 
Lunel,  where  is  the  best  Muscatto  wine  in  all 
France : the  sun  was  set,  they  had  done  their 
work : the  nymphs  had  tied  up  their  hair 
afresh,  and  the  swains  were  preparing  for  a 
carousal.  My  mule  made  a dead  point. 
4 ’T  is  the  pipe  and  tambourine/  said  1 : 4 1 
never  will  argue  a point  with  one  of  your 
family  as  long  as  I live  ’ ; so  leaping  off  his 
back,  and  kicking  off  one  boot  into  this  ditch 
and  t’  other  into  that,  4 1 ’ll  take  a dance/  said 
I,  4 so  stay  you  here.’ 

44 A sunburnt  daughter  of  labor  rose  up 
from  the  group  to  meet  me  as  I advanced 
towards  them  ; her  hair,  which  was  a dark 
chestnut  approaching  to  a black,  was  tied  up 
in  a knot,  all  but  a single  tress. 

4 4 4 We  want  a cavalier/  said  she,  holding 
out  both  her  hands,  as  if  to  offer  them.  4 And 
a cavalier  you  shall  have/  said  I,  taking  hold 
of  both  of  them.  4 We  could  not  have  done 
without  you/  said  she,  letting  go  one  hand, 
with  self-taught  politeness,  and  leading  me  up 
with  the  other. 

44  A lame  youth,  whom  Apollo  had  recom- 
pensed with  a pipe,  and  to  which  he  had 
added  a tambourine  of  his  own  accord,  ran 
sweetly  over  the  prelude,  as  he  sat  upon  the 
bank.  4 Tie  me  up  this  tress  instantly/  said 


270 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


Nannette,  pitting  a piece  of  string  into  my 
hand.  It  taught  me  to  forget  I was  a stranger. 
The  whole  knot  fell  down  — we  had  been 
seven  ^years  acquainted.  The  youth  struck  the 
note  upon  the  tambourine,  his  pipe  followed, 
and  off  we  bounded. 

44  The  sister  of  the  youth  — who  had  stolen 
her  voice  from  heaven — sang  alternately  with 
her  brother.  ’T  was  a Gacnoigne  roundelay  : 
4 Viva  la  joia, jidon  latristessa.’  The  nymphs 
joined  in  unison,  and  their  swains  an  octave 
below  them. 

“Viva  la  joia  was  in  Nannette’s  lips,  viva 
la  joia  in  her  eyes.  A transient  spark  of 
amity  shot  across  the  space  betwixt  us.  She 
looked  amiable.  Why  could  I not  live  and 
end  my  days  thus  ? 4 Just  Disposer  of  our  joys 
and  sorrows  ! ’ cried  I,  4 why  could  not  a man 
sit  down  in  the  lap  of  content  here,  and  dance, 
and  sing,  and  say  his  prayers,  and  go  to 
heaven  with  this  nut-brown  maid?’  Capri- 
ciously did  she  bend  her  head  on  one  side,  and 
dance  up  insidious.  4 Then  ’t  is  time  to  dance 
off/  quoth  I.” 

And  with  this  pretty  dance  and  chorus,  the 
volume  artfully  concludes.  Even  here  one 
can’t  give  the  whole  description.  There  is  not 
a page  in  Sterne’s  writing  but  has  something 
that  were  better  away,  a latent  corruption — a 
hint,  as  of  an  impure  presence.* 


*“  With  regard  to  Sterne,  and  the  charge  of  licentiousness 
which  presses  so  seriously  upon  his  character  as  a writer,  I 
would  remark  that  there  is  a sort  of  knowingness,  the  wit  of 
which  depends,  1st,  on  the  modesty  it  gives  pain  to;  or,  2dly, 
on  the  innocence  and  innocent  ignorance  over  which  it  triumphs ; 


STERNE  AND  GOLDSMITH . 


271 


Some  of  that  dreary  double  entendre  may  be 
attributed  to  freer  times  and  manners  than 
ours,  but  not  all.  The  foul  Satyr’s  eyes  leer 
out  of  the  leaves  constantly : the  last  words 
the  famous  author  wrote  were  bad  and  wicked 
— the  last  lines  the  poor  stricken  wretch 
penned  were  for  pity  and  pardon.  I think  of 
these  past  writers  and  of  one  who  lives 
amongst  us  now,  and  am  grateful  for  the  in- 
nocent laughter  and  the  sweet  and  unsullied 
page  which  the  author  of  u David  Copper- 
field  ” gives  to  my  children. 

“ Jete  sur  cette  bottle, 

Laid,  chetif  et  souffrant ; 

Etouffe  dans  la  foule, 

Faute  d’etre  assez  grand : 


or,  3dly,  on  a certain  oscillation  in  the  individual’s  own  mind 
between  the  remaining  good  and  the  encroaching  evil  of  his 
nature  — a sort  of  dallying  with  the  devil  — a fluxionary  art  of 
combining  courage  and  cowardice,  as  when  a man  snuffs  a can- 
dle with  his  fingers  for  the  first  time,  or  better  still,  perhaps,  like 
that  trembling  daring  with  which  a child  touches  a hot  tea-urn, 
because  it  has  been  forbidden;  so  that  the  mind  has  its  own 
white  and  black  angel;  the  same  or  similar  amusement  as  may 
be  supposed  to  take  place  between  an  old  debauchee  and  a prude 
— the  feeling  resentment,  on  the  one  hand,  from  a prudential 
anxiety  to  preserve  appearances  and  have  a character;  and,  on 
the  other,  an  inward  sympathy  with  the  enemy.  We  have  only 
to  suppose  society  innocent,  and  then  nine  tenths  of  this  sort  of 
wit  would  be  like  a stone  that  falls  in  snow,  making  no  sound, 
because  exciting  no  resistance;  the  remainder  rests  on  its  being 
an  offence  against  the  good  manners  of  human  nature  itself. 

“ This  source,  unworthy  as  it  is,  may  doubtless  be  combined 
with  wit,  drollery,  fancy,  and  even  humor;  and  we  have  only 
to  regret  the  misalliance ; but  that  the  latter  are  quite  distinct 
from  the  former,  may  be  made  evident  by  abstracting  in  our 
imagination  the  morality  of  the  characters  of  Mr.  Shandy,  my 
Uncle  Toby,  and  Trim,  which  are  all  antagonists  to  this  spurious 
sort  of  wit,  from  the  rest  of  ‘ Tristram  Shandy,’  and  by  suppos- 
ing, instead  of  them,  the  presence  of  two  or  three  callous  de- 
bauchees. The  result  will  be  pure  disgust.  Sterne  cannot  be 
too  severely  censured  for  thus  using  the  best  dispositions  of  our 
nature  as  the  panders  and  condiments  for  the  basest,”  — COLE* 
ridge  : Literary  Remains , vol.  i.  pp.  141, 142. 


2 72 


ENGLISH  IIUMOIUSTS. 


“ Une  plainte  touchante 
De  ma  bouche  sortit. 

Le  bon  Dieu  me  dit : Chante, 

Chante,  pauvre  petit! 

“ Chanter,  ou  je  m’abuse, 

Est  ma  tache  ici-bas. 

Tous  ceux  qu’ainsi  j ’amuse, 

]STe  m’aimeront-ils  pas  ? ” 

In  those  charming  lines  of  Beranger,  one 
may  fancy  described  the  career,  the  sufferings, 
the  genius,  the  gentle  nature  of  Goldsmith, 
and  the  esteem  in  which  we  hold  him.  Who, 
of  the  millions  whom  he  has  amused,  does  n’t 
love  him?  To  be  the  most  beloved  of  Eng- 
lish writers,  what  a title  that  is  for  a man ! * 
A wild  youth,  wayward,  but  full  of  tenderness 
and  affection,  quits  the  country  village,  where 
his  boyhood  has  been  passed  in  happy  musing, 
in  idle  shelter,  in  fond  longing  to  see  the.  great 
world  out  of  doors,  and  achieve  name  and  for- 
tune ; and  after  years  of  dire  struggle,  and 
neglect  and  poverty,  his  heart  turning  back  as 
fondly  to  his  native  place  as  it  had  longed 
eagerly  for  change  when  sheltered  there,  he 
writes  a book  and  a poem,  full  of  the  recol- 


*“  He  was  a friend  to  virtue,  and  in  his  most  playful  pages 
never  forgets  what  is  due  to  it.  A gentleness,  delicacy,  and 
purity  of  feeling  distinguishes  whatever  he  wrote,  and  hears  a 
correspondence  to  the  generosity  of  a disposition  which  knew  no 
bounds  but  his  last  guinea.  . . . 

“ The  admirable  ease  and  grace  of  the  narrative,  as  well  as  the 
pleasing  truth  with  which  the  principal  characters  are  designed, 
make  the  ‘ Vicar  of  Wakefield  ’ one  of  the  most  delicious  morsels 
of  fictitious  composition  on  which  the  human  mind  was  ever 
employed. 

“ . . . We  read  the  * Vicar  of  Wakefield  ’ in  youth  and  in  age 

— we  return  to  it  again  and  again,  and  bless  the  memory  of  an 
author  who  contrives  so  well  to  reconcile  us  to  human  nature.” 

— Sir  Walter  Scott. 


STERNE  AND  GOLDSMITH.  273 

lections  and  feelings  of  home  : he  paints  the 
friends  and  scenes  of  his  youth,  and  peoples 
Auburn  and  Wakefield  with  remembrances  of 
Lissoy.  Wander  he  must,  but  he  carries  away 
a home-relic  with  him,  and  dies  with  it  on  his 
breast.  His  nature  is  truant ; in  repose  it 
longs  for  change  : as  on  the  journey  it  looks 
back  for  friends  and  quiet.  He  passes  to-day 
in  building  an  air-castle  for  to-morrow,  or  in 
writing  yesterday’s  elegy  ; and  he  would  fly 
away  this  hour,  but  that  a cage  and  necessity 
keep  him.  What  is  the  charm  of  his  verse, 
of  his  style,  and  humor?  His  sweet  regrets, 
his  delicate  compassion,  his  soft  smile,  his 
tremulous  sympathy,  the  weakness  which  he 
owns?  Your  love  for  him  is  half  pity.  You 
come  hot  and  tired  from  the  day’s  battle,  and 
this  sweet  minstrel  sings  to  you.  Who  could 
harm  the  kind  vagrant  harper?  Whom  did 
he  ever  hurt?  He  carries  no  weapon,  save 
the  harp  on  which  he  plays  to  you  ; and  with 
which  he  delights  great  and  humble,  young 
and  old,  the  captains  in  the  tents,  or  the  sol- 
diers round  the  fire,  or  the  women  and  children 
in  the  villages,  at  whose  porches  he  stops  and 
sings  his  simple  songs  of  love  and  beaut}7. 
With  that  sweet  story  of  the  u Vicar  of  Wake- 
field”* he  has  found  entry  into  every  castle 


*“Now  Herder  came,”  says  Goethe  in  his  Autobiography, 
relating  his  first  acquaintance  with  Goldsmith’s  masterpiece, 
“ and  together  with  his  great  knowledge  brought  many  other 
aids,  and  the  later  publications  besides.  Among  these  he  an- 
nounced to  us  the  ‘ Vicar  of  Wakefield  ’ as  an  excellent  work, 
with  the  German  translation  of  which  he  would  make  us  ac.. 
quainted  by  reading  it  aloud  to  us  himself.  . . . 

“A  Protestant  country  clergyman  is  perhaps  the  most  beau- 

18 


274 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


and  every  hamlet  in  Europe.  Not  one  of  us, 
however  busy  or  hard,  but  once  or  twice  in 
our  lives  has  passed  an  evening  with  him,  and 
undergone  the  charm  of  his  delightful  music. 

Goldsmith’s  father  was  no  doubt  the  good 


tiful  subject  for  a modern  idyl;  he  appears  like  Melchizedeck, 
as  priest  and  king  in  one  person.  To  the  most  innocent  situation 
which  can  be  imagined  on  earth,  to  that  of  a husbandman,  he  is, 
for  the  most  part,  united  by  similarity  of  occupation  as  well  as 
by  equality  in  family  relationships;  he  is  a father,  a master  of  a 
family,  an  agriculturist,  and  thus  perfectly  a member  of  the 
community.  On  this  pure,  beautiful  earthly  foundation  rests 
his  higher  calling;  to  him  is  it  given  to  guide  men  through  life, 
to  take  care  of  their  spiritual  education,  to  bless  them  at  all  the 
leading  epochs  of  their  existence,  to  instruct,  to  strengthen,  to 
console  them,  Mid  if  consolation  is  not  sufficient  for  the  present, 
to  call  up  and  guarantee  the  hope  of  a happier  future.  Imagine 
such  a man  with  pure  human  sentiments,  strong  enough  not  to 
deviate  from  them  under  any  circumstances,  and  by  this  already 
elevated  above  the  multitude  of  whom  one  cannot  expect  purity 
and  firmness ; give  him  the  learning  necessary  for  his  office,  as 
well  as  a cheerful,  equable  activity,  which  is  even  passionate,  as 
it  neglects  no  moment  to  do  good  — and  you  will  have  him  well 
endowed.  But  at  the  same  time  add  the  necessary  limitation,  so 
that  he  must  not  only  pause  in  a small  circle,  but  may  also,  per- 
chance, pass  over  to  a smaller ; grant  him  good-nature,  placability, 
resolution,  and  everything  else  praiseworthy  that  springs  from 
a decided  character,  and  over  all  this  a cheerful  spirit  of  compli- 
ance, and  a smiling  toleration  of  his  own  failings  and  those  of 
others, — then  you  will  have  put  together  pretty  well  the  image 
of  our  excellent  Wakefield. 

“ The  delineation  of  this  character  on  his  course  of  life  through 
joys  and  sorrows,  the  ever-increasing  interest  of  the  story,  by 
the  combination  of  the  entirely  natural  with  the  strange  and  the 
singular,  make  this  novel  one  of  the  best  which  has  ever  been 
written;  besides  this,  it  has  the  great  advantage  that  it  is  quite 
moral,  nay,  in  a pure  sense,  Christian  — represents  the  reward 
of  a good-will  and  perseverance  in  the  right,  strengthens  an  un- 
conditional confidence  in  God,  and  attests  the  final  triumph  of 
good  over  evil;  and  all  this  without  a trace  of  cant  or  pedantry. 
The  author  was  preserved  from  both  of  these  by  an  elevation  of 
mind  that  shows  itself  throughout  in  the  form  of  irony,  by  which 
this  little  work  must  appear  to  us  as  wise  as  it  is  amirable.  The 
author,  Dr.  Goldsmith,  has,  without  question,  a great  insight 
into  the  moral  world,  into  its  strength  and  its  infirmities;  but  at 
the  same  time  he  can  thankfully  acknowledge  that  he  is  an 
Englishman,  and  reckon  highly  the  advantages  which  his  country 
and  his  nation  afford  him.  The  family,  with  the  delineation  of 
which  he  occupies  himself,  stands  upon  one  of  the  last  steps  of 
citizen  comfort,  and  yet  comes  in  contact  with  the  highest;  its 


STEliNE  AND  GOLDSMITH. 


275 


Doctor  Primrose,  whom  we  all  of  us  know.* 
Swift  was  yet  alive,  when  the  little  Oliver  was 
bom  at  Pallas,  or  Pallasmore,  in  the  county 
of  Longford,  in  Ireland.  In  1730,  two  years 
after  the  child’s  birth,  Charles  Goldsmith  re- 
moved his  family  to  Lissoy,  in  the  county 
Westmeath,  that  sweet  0 4 Auburn”  which 
every  person  who  hears  me  has  seen  in  fancy. 


narrow  circle,  which  becomes  still  more  contracted,  touches  upon 
the  great  world  through  the  natural  and  civil  course  of  things; 
this  little  skiff  floats  on  the  agitated  waves  of  English  life,  and  in 
weal  or  woe  it  has  to  expect  injury  or  help  from  the  vast  fleet 
which  sails  around  it. 

“ I may  suppose  that  my  readers  know  this  work,  and  have  it 
in  memory;  whoever  hears  it  named  for  the  first  time  here,  as 
well  as  he  who  is  induced  to  read  it  again,  will  thank  me.”  — 
Goethe  : Truth  and  Poetry;  from  my  own  Life . (English 
Translation,  vol.  i.  pp.  378,  379.) 

“ He  seems  from  infancy  to  have  been  compounded  of  two 
natures,  one  bright,  the  other  blundering;  or  to  have  had  fairy 
gifts  laid  in  his  cradle  by  the  * good  people  ’ who  haunted  his 
birthplace,  the  old  goblin  mansion  on  the  banks  of  the  Inny. 

“He  carries  with  him  the  wayward  elfin  spirit,  if  we  may  so 
term  it,  throughout  his  career.  His  fairy  gifts  are  of  no  avail  at 
school,  academy,  or  college : they  unlit  him  for  close  study  and 
practical  science,  and  render  him  heedless  of  everything  that  does 
not  address  itself  to  his  poetical  imagination  and  genial  and  festive 
feelings ; they  dispose  him  to  break  away  from  restraint,  to  stroll 
about  hedges,  green  lanes,  and  haunted  streams,  to  revel  with 
jovial  companions,  or  to  rove  the  country  like  a gypsy  in  quest  of 
odd  adventures.  . . . 

“ Though  his  circumstances  often  compelled  him  to  associate 
with  the  poor,  they  : lever  could  betray  him  into  companionship 
with  the  depraved.,  His  relish  for  humor,  and  for  the  study  of 
character,  as  we  have  before  observed,  brought  him  often  into 
convivial  company  of  a vulgar  kind ; but  he  discriminated  between 
their  vulgarity  and  Oioir  amusing  qualities,  or  rather  wrought 
from  the  whole  store  familiar  features  of  life  which  form  the 
staple  of  his  most  popular  writings.”  — Washington  Irving. 

*“  The  family  of  Goldsmith,  Goldsmyth,  or,  as  it  was  occa- 
sionally written,  Gouldsmith,  is  of  considerable  standing  in 
Ireland,  and  seems  always  to  have  held  a respectable  station  in 
society.  Its  origin  is  English,  supposed  to  be  derived  from  that 
which  was  long  settled  at  Crayford  in  Kent.”  — Prior’s  Life  of 
Goldsmith. 

Oliver’s  father,  great-grandfather,  and  great-great-grand- 
father were  clergymen ; and  two  of  them  married  clergymen’s 
daughters. 


276  ENGLISH  HUMOBISTS . 

Here  the  kind  parson*  brought  up  his  eight 
children ; and  loving  all  the  world,  as  his  son 
says,  fancied  all  the  world  loved  him.  He 
had  a crowd  of  poor  dependants  besides  those 
hungry  children.  He  kept  an  open  table ; 
round  which  sat  flatterers  and  poor  friends, 
who  laughed  at  the  honest  rector’s  many  jokes, 
and  ate  the  produce  of  his  seventy  acres  of 
farm.  Those  who  have  seen  an  Irish  house 
in  the  present  day  can  fancy  that  one  of  Lis- 
soy.  The  old  beggar  still  has  his  allotted 
corner  by  the  kitchen  turf ; the  maimed  old 
soldier  still  gets  his  potatoes  and  buttermilk ; 
the  poor  cottier  still  asks  his  honor’s  charity, 
and  prays  God  bless  his  reverence  for  the  six- 
pence ; the  ragged  pensioner  still  takes  his 
place  by  right  and  sufferance.  There ’s  still  a 
crowd  in  the  kitchen,  and  a crowd  round  the 
parlor  table,  profusion,  confusion,  kindness, 
poverty.  If  an  Irishman  comes  to  London  to 
make  his  fortune,  he  has  a half  dozen  of  Irish 
dependants  who  take  a percentage  of  his  earn- 


*“  At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace, 

His  looks  adorn’d  the  venerable  place ; 

Truth  from  his  lips  prevail’d  with  double  sway, 

And  fools  who  came  to  scoff  remain’d  to  pray. 

The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man, 

With  steady  zeal  each  honest  rustic  ran ; 

E’en  children  follow’d  with  endearing  wile, 

And  pluck’d  his  gown  to  share  the  good  man’s  smile. 

His  ready  smile  a parent’s  warmth  exprest, 

Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares  distrest; 

To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs  were  given, 

But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  Heaven. 

As  some  tall  cliff  that  lifts  his  awful  form, 

Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm, 
Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread, 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head.” 

The  Deserted  Village . 


STEBNE  AND  GOLDSMITH. 


277 


ings.  The  good  Charles  Goldsmith*  left  but 
little  provision  for  his  hungry  race  when  death 
summoned  him : and  one  of  his  daughters 
being  engaged  to  a Squire  of  rather  superior 
dignity,  Charles  Goldsmith  impoverished  the 
rest  of  his  family  to  provide  the  girl  with  a 
dowry. 

The  small-pox,  which  scourged  all  Europe 
at  that  time,  and  ravaged  the  roses  off  the 
cheeks  of  half  the  world,  fell  foul  of  poor 
little  Oliver’s  face,  when  the  child  was  eight 
years  old,  and  left  him  scarred  and  disfigured 
for  his  life.  An  old  woman  in  his  father’s 
village  taught  him  his  letters,  and  pronounced 
him  a dunce  : Paddy  Byrne,  the  hedge-school- 
master, took  him  in  hand  ; and  from  Paddy 
Byrne,  he  was  transmitted  to  a clergyman  at 
Elphin.  When  a child  was  sent  to  school  in 
those  days,  the  classic  phrase  was  that  he  was 


* “ In  May  this  year  (1768) , he  lost  his  brother,  the  Rev.  Henry 
Goldsmith,  for  whom  he  had  been  unable  to  obtain  preferment  in 
the  church.  . . . 

“ . . . To  the  curacy  of  Kilkenny  West,  the  moderate  stipend 
of  which,  forty  pounds  a year,  is  sufficiently  celebrated  by  his 
brother’s  lines,  it  has  been  stated  that  Mr.  Goldsmith  added  a 
school,  which,  after  having  been  held  at  more  than  one  place  in 
the  vicinity,  was  finally  fixed  at  Lissoy.  Here  his  talents  and 
industry  gave  it  celebrity,  and  under  his  care  the  sons  of  many 
of  the  neighboring  gentry  received  their  education . A fever  break- 
ing out  among  the  boys  about  1765,  they  dispersed  for  a time, 
but  reassembling  at  Athlone,  he  continued  his  scholastic  labors 
there  until  the  time  of  his  death,  which  happened,  like  that  of 
his  brother,  about  the  forty-fifth  year  of  his  age.  He  was  a man 
of  an  excellent  heart  and  an  amiable  disposition.”  — Prior’s 
Goldsmith . 

“ Where’er  I roam,  whatever  realms  to  see, 

My  heart,  untravell’d,  fondly  turns  to  thee  : 

Still  to  my  brother  turns  with  ceaseless  pain, 

And  drags  at  each  remove  a lengthening  chain.” 

The  Traveller . 


278 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


placed  under  Mr.  So-and-so’s  ferule . Poor 
little  ancestors  ! It  is  hard  to  think  how  ruth- 
lessly you  were  birched ; and  how  much  of 
heedless  whipping  and  tears  our  small  fore- 
fathers had  to  undergo!  A relative  — kind 
uncle  Contarine  — took  the  main  charge  of 
little  Noll ; who  went  through  his  school-days 
righteously  doing  as  little  work  as  he  could : 
robbing  orchards,  playing  at  ball,  and  making 
his  pocket-money  fly  about  whenever  fortune 
sent  it  to  him.  Everybody  knows  the  story  of 
that  famous  u Mistake  of  a Night,”  when  the 
young  school -boy,  provided  with  a guinea  and 
a nag,  rode  up  to  the  best  house  ” in  Ardagh, 
called  for  the  landlord’s  company  over  a bot- 
tle of  wine  at  supper,  and  for  a hot  cake  for 
breakfast  in  the  morning ; and  fonnd,  when 
he  asked  for  the  bill,  that  the  best  house  was 
Squire  Featherstone’s,  and  not  the  inn  for 
which  he  mistook  it.  Who  does  not  know 
every  story  about  Goldsmith?  That  is  a de- 
lightful and  fantastic  picture  of  the  child  dan- 
cing and  capering  about  in  the  kitchen  at  home-, 
when  the  old  fiddler  gibed  at  him  for  his  ugli- 
ness, and  called  him  AEsop  ; and  little  Noll 
made  his  repartee  of  u Heralds  proclaim  aloud 
this  saying  — See  JEsop  dancing  and  his  mon- 
key playing.”  One  can  fancy  a queer  pitiful 
look  of  humor  and  appeal  upon  that  little 
scarred  face  — the  funny  little  dancing  figure, 
the  funny  little  brogue.  In  his  life,  and  his 
writings,  which  are  the  honest  expression  of 
it,  he  is  constantly  bewailing  that  homely  face 
and  person  ; anon  he  surveys  them  in  the  glass 


STEBNE  AND  GOLDSMITH. 


279 


ruefully  ; and  presently  assumes  the  most  com- 
ical dignity.  He  likes  to  deck  out  his  little 
person  in  splendor  and  fine  colors.  He  pre- 
sented himself  to  be  examined  for  ordination 
in  a pair  of  scarlet  breeches,  and  said  honestly 
that  he  did  not  like  to  go  into  the  church, 
because  he  was  fond  of  colored  clothes.  When 
he  tried  to  practise  as  a doctor,  he  got  by  hook 
or  by  crook  a black  velvet  suit,  and  looked  as 
big  and  grand  as  he  could,  and  kept  his  hat 
over  a patch  on  the  old  coat : in  better  days 
he  bloomed  out  in  plum-color,  in  blue  silk, 
and  in  new  velvet.  For  some  of  those  splen- 
dors the  heirs  and  assignees  of  Mr.  Filby,  the 
tailor,  have  never  been  paid  to  this  day : per- 
haps the  kind  tailor  and  his  creditor  have  met 
and  settled  their  little  account  in  Hades.* 
They  showed  until  lately  a window  at  Trin- 
ity College,  Dublin,  on  which  the  name  of  O. 
Goldsmith  was  engraved  with  a diamond. 
Whose  diamond  was  it?  Not  the  young 
sizar’s,  who  made  but  a poor  figure  in  that 
place  of  learning.  He  was  idle,  penniless, 
and  fond  of  pleasure  : f he  learned  his  way 
early  to  the  pawnbroker’s  shop.  He  wrote 
ballads,  they  say,  for  the  street-singers,  who 
paid  him  a crown  for  a poem  : and  his  pleasure 


*“  When  Goldsmith  died,  half  the  unpaid  hill  he  owed  to  Mr. 
William  Filby  (amounting  in  all  to  £79)  was  for  clothes  supplied 
to  this  nephew  Hodson.” — Forster’s  Goldsmith , p.  520. 

As  this  nephew  Ilodson  ended  his  days  (see  the  same  page) 
“ a prosperous  Irish  gentleman,”  it  is  not  unreasonable  to  wish 
that  he  had  cleared  off  Mr.  Filby’ s bill. 

f “ Poor  fellow ! He  hardly  knew  an  ass  from  a mule,  nor  a 
turkey  from  a goose,  but  when  he  saw  it  on  the  table.”  — Cum- 
berland’s Memoirs . 


280 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


was  to  steal  out  at  night  and  hear  his  verses 
sung.  He  was  chastised  by  his  tutor  for  giv- 
ing a dance  in  his  rooms,  and  took  the  box  on 
the  ear  so  much  to  heart,  that  he  packed  up 
his  all,  pawned  his  books  and  little  property, 
and  disappeared  from  college  and  family.  He 
said  he  intended  to  go  to  America,  but  when 
his  money  was  spent,  the  young  prodigal  came 
home  ruefully,  and  the  good  folks  there  killed 
their  calf  — it  was  but  a lean  one  — and  wel- 
comed himback. 

After  college  he  hung  about  his  mother’s 
house,  and  lived  for  some  years  the  life  of  a 
buckeen  — passed  a month  with  this  relation 
and  that,  a year  with  one  patron,  a great  deal 
of  time  at  the  public-house.*  Tired  of  this 
life,  it  was  resolved  that  he  should  go  to  Lon- 
don, and  study  at  the  Temple  ; but  he  got  no 
farther  on  the  road  to  London  and  the  wool- 
sack than  Dublin,  where  he  gambled  away  the 
fifty  pounds  given  to  him  for  his  outfit,  and 
whence  he  returned  to  the  indefatigable  for- 
giveness of  home.  Then  he  determined  to  be- 
a doctor,  and  uncle  Contarine  helped  him  to  a 
couple  of  years  at  Edinburgh.  Then  from 
Edinburgh  he  felt  that  he  ought  to  hear 
the  famous  professors  of  Leyden  and  Paris, 
and  wrote  most  amusing  pompous  letters  to 


*“  These  youthful  follies,  like  the  fermentation  of  liquors, 
often  disturb  the  mind  only  in  order  to  its  future  refinement : a 
life  spent  in  phlegmatic  apathy  resembles  those  liquors  which 
never  ferment,  and  are  consequently  always  muddy.”  — Gold* 
smith  : Memoir  of  Voltaire . 

“ He  [Johnson]  said  ‘ Goldsmith  was  a plant  that  flowered 
late.  There  appeared  nothing  remarkable  about  him  when  he 
was  young.’  ” — Boswell. 


STERNE  AND  GOLDSMITH. 


281 


his  uncle  about  the  great  Farheim,  Du  Petit, 
and  Duhamel  du  Monceau,  whose  lectures 
he  proposed  to  follow.  If  uncle  Contarine 
believed  those  letters,  — if  Oliver’s  mother 
believed  that  story  which  the  youth  related 
of  his  going  to  Cork,  with  the  purpose  of 
embarking  for  America,  of  his  having  paid 
his  passage-money,  and  having  sent  his  kit  on 
board  ; of  the  anonymous  captain  sailing  away 
with  Oliver’s  valuable  luggage,  in  a nameless 
ship,  never  to  return,  — if  uncle  Contarine  and 
the  mother  at  Ballymahon  believed  his  stories, 
they  must  have  been  a very  simple  pair  ; as  it 
was  a very  simple  rogue  indeed  who  cheated 
them.  When  the  lad,  after  failing  in  his 
clerical  examination,  after  failing  in  his  plan 
for  studying  the  law,  took  leave  of  these  pro- 
jects and  of  his  parents,  and  set  out  for  Edin- 
burgh, he  saw  mother,  and  uncle,  and  lazy 
Baltymalion,  and  green  native  turf,  and  spark- 
ling river  for  the  last  time.  He  was  never  to 
look  on  old  Ireland  more,  and  only  in  fancy 
revisit  her. 

“ But  me  not  destined  such  delights  to  share, 

My  prime  of  life  in  wandering  spent  and  care, 
Impelled,  with  steps  unceasing,  to  pursue 
Some  fleeting  good  that  mocks  me  with  the  view ; 
That  like  the  circle  bounding  earth  and  skies 
Allures  from  far,  yet,  as  I follow,  flies : 

My  fortune  leads  to  traverse  realms  alone, 

And  find  no  spot  of  all  the  world  my  own.” 

I spoke  in  a former  lecture  of  that  high 
courage  which  enabled  Fielding,  in  spite  of 
disease,  remorse,  and  poverty,  always  to  re- 
tain a cheerful  spirit  and  to  keep  his  manly 


282 


ENGLISH  HUMOHISTS . 


benevolence  and  love  of  truth  intact,  as  if 
these  treasures  had  been  confided  to  him  for 
the  public  benefit,  and  he  was  accountable  to 
posterity  for  their  honorable  employ ; and  a 
constancy  equally  happy  and  admirable  I think 
was  shown  by  Goldsmith,  whose  sweet  and 
friendly  nature  bloomed  kindly  always  in  the 
midst  of  a life’s  storm,  and  rain,  and  bitter 
weather. * The  poor  fellow  was  never  so 

friendless  but  he  could  befriend  some  one  ; 
never  so  pinched  and  wretched  but  he  could 
give  of  his  crust,  and  speak  his  word  of  com- 
passion. If  he  had  but  his  flute  left,  he  could 
give  that,  and  make  the  children  happy  in  the 
dreary  London  court.  He  could  give  the 
coals  in  that  queer  coal-scuttle  we  read  of  to 
his  poor  neighbor : he  could  give  away  his 
blankets  in  college  to  the  poor  widow,  and 
warm  himself  as  he  best  might  in  the  feathers  : 
he  could  pawn  his  coat  to  save  his  landlord 
from  gaol : when  he  was  a school-usher  he 
spent  his  warnings  in  treats  for  the  boys,  and 
the  good-natured  schoolmaster’s  wife  said 
justly  that  she  ought  to  keep  Mr.  Goldsmith’s 
money  as  well  as  the  young  gentlemen’s. 
When  he  met  his  pupils  in  later  life,  nothing 
would  satisfy  the  Doctor  but  he  must  treat 


*“  An  ‘ inspired  idiot,’  Goldsmith,  hangs  strangely  about  him 
[Johnson].  . . . Yet,  on  the  whole,  there  is  no  evil  in  the  ‘ goose- 
berry-fool,’ but  rather  much  good;  of  a liner,  if  of  a weaker  sort 
than  Johnson’s;  and  all  the  more  genuine  that  he  himself  could 
never  become  conscious  of  it,  — though  unhappily  never  cease 
attempting  to  become  so : the  author  of  the  genuine  ‘ Vicar  of 
Wakefield,’  nill  he  will  he,  must  needs  fly  towards  such  a mass 
of  genuine  manhood.” — Carlyle’s  Essays  (2d  ed.),  vol.  iv. 
p.  91. 


STERNE  AND  GOLDSMITH '. 


283 


them  still.  u Have  you  seen  the  print  of  me 
after  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds?”  he  asked  of  one 
of  his  old  pupils.  u Not  seen  it?  not  bought 
it?  Sure,  Jack,  if  your  picture  had  been  pub- 
lished, I’d  not  have  been  without  it  half ’an 
hour.”  His  purse  and  his  heart  were  every- 
body’s, and  his  friends’  as  much  as  his  own. 
When  he  was  at  the  height  of  his  reputation, 
and  the  Earl  of  Northumberland,  going  as 
Lord  Lieutenant  to  Ireland,  asked  if  he  could 
be  of  any  service  to  Doctor  Goldsmith,  Gold- 
smith recommended  his  brother,  and  not  him- 
self, to  the  great  man.  “ My  patrons,”  he 
gallantly  said,  “ are  the  booksellers,  and  I 
want  no  others.”  * Hard  patrons  they  were, 
and  hard  work  he  did  ; but  he  did  not  com- 
plain much : if  in  his  early  writings  some 
bitter  words  escaped  him,  some  allusions  to 
neglect  and  poverty,  he  withdrew  these  ex- 
pressions when  his  works  were  republished, 


*“  At  present,  the  few  poets  of  England  no  longer  depend  on 
the  great  for  subsistence;  they  have  now  no  other  patrons  but 
the  public,  and  the  public,  collectively  considered,  is  a good  and  a 
generous  master.  It  is  indeed  too  frequently  mistaken  as  to  the 
merits  of  every  candidate  for  favor ; but  to  make  amends  it  is 
never  mistaken  loug.  A performance  indeed  may  be  forced  for 
a time  into  reputation,  but,  destitute  of  real  merit,  it  soon  sinks ; 
time,  the  touchstone  of  what  is  truly  valuable,  will  soon  discover 
the  fraud,  and  an  author  should  never  arrogate  to  himself  any 
share  of  success  till  his  works  have  been  read  at  least  ten  years 
with  satisfaction. 

“ A man  of  letters  at  present,  whose  works  are  valuable,  is 
perfectly  sensible  of  their  value.  Every  polite  member  of  the 
community,  by  buying  what  he  writes,  contributes  to  reward 
him.  The  ridicule,  therefore,  of  living  in  a garret  might  have 
been  wit  in  the  last  age,  but  continues  such  no  longer,  because 
no  longer  true.  A writer  of  real  merit  now  may  easily  be  rich, 
if  his  heart  be  set  only  on  fortune ; and  for  those  who  have  no 
merit,  it  is  but  fit  that  such  should  remain  in  merited  obscurity.’* 
-(—Goldsmith:  Citizen  of  the  World  t Let.  84. 


ENGLISH  II UM OBIS T S. 


284 

and  better  da}^s  seemed  to  open  for  him  ; and 
he  did  not  care  to  complain  that  printer  or 
publisher  had  overlooked  his  merit,  or  left  him 
poor.  The  Court  face  was  turned  from  hon- 
est Oliver,  the  Court  patronized  Beattie  ; the 
fashion  did  not  shine  on  him  — fashion  adored 
Sterne.*  Fashion  pronounced  Kelly  to  be  the 
great  writer  of  comedy  of  his  day.  A little, 
not  ill-humor,  but  plaintiveness,  a little  be- 
trayal of  wounded  pride  which  he  showed, 
render  him  not  the  less  amiable.  The  author 
of  the  “ Vicar  of  Wakefield  ” had  a right  to 
protest  when  Newbery  kept  back  the  MS.  for 
two  years ; had  a right  to  be  a little  peevish 
with  Sterne  ; a little  angry  when  Colman’s 
actors  declined  their  parts  in  his  delightful 
comedy,  when  the  manager  refused  to  have  a 
scene  painted  for  it,  and  pronounced  its  dam- 
nation before  hearing.  lie  had  not  the  great 


* Goldsmith  attacked  Sterne  obviously  enough,  censuring  his 
indecency,  and  slighting  his  wit,  and  ridiculing  his  manner,  in 
the  53d  letter  in  the  “ Citizen  of  the  World.” 

“As  in  common  conversation,”  says  he,  “ the  best  way  to_x 
make  the  audience  laugh  is  by  first  laughing  yourself ; so  in  writ- 
ing, the  properest  manner  is  to  show  an  attempt  at  humor,  which 
will  pass  upon  most  for  humor  in  reality.  To  effect  this,  readers 
must  be  treated  with  the  most  perfect  familiarity;  in  one  page 
the  author  is  to  make  them  a low  bow,  and  in  the  next  to  pull 
them  by  the  nose;  he  must  talk  in  riddles,  and  then  send  them 
to  bed  in  order  to  dream  for  the  solution,”  etc. 

Sterne’s  humorous  mot  on  the  subject  of  the  gravest  part  of  the 
charges,  then,  as  now,  made  against  him,  may  perhaps  be  quoted 
here,  from  the  excellent,  the  respectable  Sir  Walter  Scott : — 

“ Soon  after  ‘ Tristram  * had  appeared,  Sterne  asked  a York- 
shire lady  of  fortune  and  condition,  whether  she  had  read  his 
book.  ‘ I have  not,  Mr.  Sterne,’  was  the  answer;  ‘ and  to  be  plain 
with  you,  I am  informed  it  is  not  proper  for  female  perusal.* 

* My  dear  good  lady,’ replied  the  author,  * do  not  be  gulled  by 
such  stories;  the  book  is  like  your  young  heir  there’  (pointing 
to  a child  of  three  years  old,  who  was  rolling  on  the  carpet  in  his 
white  tunic)  : ‘ he  shows  at  times  a good  deal  that  is  usually  con. 
cealed,  but  it  is  all  in  perfect  innocence,’  ” 


STERNE  AND  GOLDSMITH . 


285 


public  with  him  ; but  he  had  the  noble  John- 
son, and  the  admirable  Reynolds,  and  the 
great  Gibbon,  and  the  great  Burke,  and  the 
great  Fox — friends  and  admirers  illustrious 
indeed,  as  famous  as  those  who,  fifty  years 
before,  sat  round  Pope’s  table. 

Nobody  knows,  and  I dare  say  Goldsmith’s 
buoyant  temper  kept  no  account  of  all  the 
pains  which  he  endured  during  the  early  period 
of  his  literary  career.  Should  any  man  of 
letters  in  our  day  have  to  bear  up  against 
such,  heaven  grant  he  may  come  out  of  the 
period  of  misfortune  with  such  a pure  kind 
heart  as  that  which  Goldsmith  obstinately 
bore  in  his  breast.  The  insults  to  which  he 
had  to  submit  are  shocking  to  read  of  — slan- 
der, contumely,  vulgar  satire,  brutal  malignity 
perverting  his  commonest  motives  and  actions  ; 
he  had  his  share  of  these,  and  one’s  anger  is 
roused  at  reading  of  them,  as  it  is  at  seeing  a 
woman  insulted  or  a child  assaulted,  at  the 
notion  that  a creature  so  very  gentle  and  weak, 
and  full  of  love,  should  have  had  to  suffer  so. 
And  he  had  worse  than  insult  to  undergo  — to 
own  to  fault  and  deprecate  the  anger  of  ruf- 
fians. There  is  a letter  of  his  extant  to  one 
Griffiths,  a bookseller,  in  which  poor  Gold- 
smith is  forced  to  confess  that  certain  books 
sent  by  Griffiths  are  in  the  hands  of  a friend 
from  whom  Goldsmith  had  been  forced  to  bor- 
row money.  u He  was  wild,  sir,”  Johnson 
said,  speaking  of  Goldsmith  to  Boswell,  with 
his  great,  wise  benevolence  and  noble  merci- 
fulness of  heart, — u Dr.  Goldsmith  was  wild, 


286 


ENGLISH  HUM  OBIS  TS. 


sir  ; but  be  is  so  no  more.”  All ! if  we  pity  the 
good  and  weak  man  who  suffers  undeservedly, 
let  us  deal  very  gently  with  him  from  whom 
misery  extorts  not  only  tears,  but  shame  ; let 
us  think  humbly  and  charitably  of  the  human 
nature  that  suffers  so  sadly  and  falls  so  low. 
Whose  turn  may  it  be  to-morrow  ? What  weak 
heart,  confident  before  trial,  may  not  succumb 
under  temptation  invincible  ? Cover  the  good 
man  who  has  been  vanquished  — cover  his 
face  and  pass  on. 

<For  the  last  half  dozen  years  of  his  life, 
Goldsmith  was  far  lemoved  from  the  pressure 
of  any  ignoble  necessity  : and  in  the  receipt, 
indeed,  of  a pretty  large  income  from  the  book- 
sellers his  patrons.  Had  he  lived  but  a few 
years  more,  his  public  fame  would  have  been 
as  great  as  his  private  reputation,  and  he 
might  have  enjoyed  alive  a part  of  that  esteem 
which  his  country  has  ever  since  paid  to  the 
vivid  and  versatile  genius  who  has  touched  on 
almost  every  subject  of  literature,  and  touched 
nothing  that  he  did  not  adorn.  Except  in 
rare  instances,  a man  is  known  in  our  profes- 
sion, and  esteemed  as  a skilful  workman, 
years  before  the  lucky  hit  which  trebles  his 
usual  gains,  and  stamps  him  a popular  author. 
In  the  strength  of  his  age,  and  the  dawn  of 
his  reputation,  having  for  backers  and  friends 
the  most  illustrious  literary  men  of  his  time,* 


* “ Goldsmith  told  us  that  he  was  now  busy  in  writing  a Nat- 
ural History ; and  that  he  might  have  full  leisure  for  it,  he  had 
taken  lodgings  at  a farmer’s  house,  near  to  the  six-mile  stone  in 
the  Edgware  Road,  and  had  carried  down  his  books  in  two  re- 
turned postchaises.  He  said  he  believed  the  farmer’s  family 


STERNE  AND  GOLDSMITH . 287 

fame  and  prosperity  might  have  been  in  store 
for  Goldsmith,  had  fate  so  willed  it ; and,  at 
forty-six,  had  not  sudden  disease  carried  him 
off.  I say  prosperity  rather  than  competence, 
for  it  is  probable  that  no  sum  could  have  put 
order  into  his  affairs  or  sufficed  for  his  irre- 
claimable habits  of  dissipation.  It  must  be 
remembered  that  he  owed  £2,000  when  he 
died.  “ Was  ever  poet,”  Johnson  asked,  u so 
trusted  before  ? ” As  has  been  the  case  with 
many  another  good  fellow  of  his  nation,  his 
life  was  tracked  and  his  substance  wasted  by 
crowds  of  hungry  beggars  and  lazy  depend- 
ants. If  they  came  at  a lucky  time  (and  be 
sure  they  knew  his  affairs  better  than  he  did 
himself,  and  watched  his  pay-day),  he  gave 
them  of  his  money  : if  they  begged  on  empty- 
purse  days  he  gave  them  his  promissory  bills  ; 
or  he  treated  them  to  a tavern  where  he  had 
credit ; or  he  obliged  them  with  an  order  upon 
honest  Mr.  Filby  for  coats,  for  which  he  paid 
as  long  as  he  could  earn,  and  until  the  shears 
of  Filby  were  to  cut  for  him  no  more.  Stag- 
gering under  a load  of  debt  and  labor,  tracked 
by  bailiffs  and  reproachful  creditors,  running 
from  a hundred  poor  dependants,  whose  ap- 
pealing looks  were  perhaps  the  hardest  of  all 
pains  for  him  to  bear,  devising  fevered  plans 


thought  him  an  odd  character,  similar  to  that  in  which  the  Spec- 
tator appeared  to  his  landlady  and  her  children;  he  was  The 
Gentleman . Mr.  Mickle,  the  translator  of  the  ‘ Lusted,’  and  I, 
went  to  visit  him  at  this  place  a few  days  afterwards.  He  was 
not  at  home ; hut  having  a curiosity  to  see  his  apartment,  we 
went  in,  and  found  curious  scraps  of  descriptions  of  animals 
scrawled  upon  the  wall  with  a blacklead  pencil.”  — Boswell. 


288 


ENGLISH  II UM OBIS  TS. 


for  the  morrow,  new  histories,  new  comedies, 
all  sorts  of  new  literary  sehemes,  flying  from  all 
these  into  seclusion,  and  out  of  seclusion  into 
pleasure  — at  last,  at  five-and-forty,  death 
seized  him  and  closed  his  career.*  I have 
been  many  a time  in  the  chambers  in  the  Tem- 
ple which  were  his,  and  passed  up  the  stair- 
case, which  Johnson,  and  Burke,  and  Reynolds 
trod  to  see  their  friend,  their  poet,  their  kind 
Goldsmith  — the  stair  on  which  the  poor 
women  sat  weeping  bitterly  when  they  heard 
that  the  greatest  and  most  generous  of  all 
men  was  dead  within  the  blac  c oak  door.f 
Ah,  it  was  a different  lot  from  that  for  which 
the  poor  fellow  sighed,  when  he  wrote  with 
heart  yearning  for  home  those  most  charming 
of  all  fond  verses,  in  which  he  fancies  he  re- 
visits Auburn  : — 


♦“When  Goldsmith  was  dying,  Dr.  Turton  said  to  him, 
‘Your  pulse  is  in  greater  disorder  than  it  should  he,  from  the 
degree  of  fever  which  you  have;  is  your  mind  at  ease?  ’ Gold- 
smith answered  it  was  not.”  — Dr.  Johnson  (in  Boswell) . 

“ Chambers,  you  find,  is  gone  far,  and  poor  Goldsmith  is  gone 
much  further.  He  died  of  a fever,  exasperated,  as  I believe,  by 
the  fear  of  distress.  He  had  raised  money  and  squandered  it, 
by  every  artifice  of  acquisition  and  folly  of  expense.  But  let  not 
his  failings  be  remembered;  he  was  a very  great  man.”  — Dr. 
Johnson  to  Boswell , July  5th,  1774. 

f “ When  Burke  was  told  [of  Goldsmith’s  death]  he  burst  into 
tears.  Reynolds  was  in  his  painting-room  when  the  messenger 
went  to  him ; but  at  once  he  laid  his  pencil  aside,  which  in  times 
of  great  family  distress  he  had  not  been  known  to  do,  left  his 
painting-room,  and  did  not  re-enter  it  that  day.  . . . 

“ The  staircase  of  Brick  Court  is  said  to  have  been  filled  with 
mourners,  the  reverse  of  domestic;  women  without  a home, 
without  domesticity  of  an y kind,  with  no  friend  but  him  they 
had  come  to  weep  for ; outcasts  of  that  great,  solitary,  wicked 
city,  to  whom  he  had  never  forgotten  to  be  kind  and  charitable. 
And  he  had  domestic  mourners,  too.  His  coffin  was  reopened 
at  the  request  of  Miss  Horneck  and  her  sister  (such  was  the  re- 
gard he  was  known  to  have  for  them !)  that  a lock  might  be  cut 
from  his  hair.  It  was  in  Mrs.  Gwyn’s  possession  when  she  died, 
after  nearly  seventy  years.”  — Foster’s  Goldsmith. 


STEBNE  AND  GOLDSMITIL  289 


“ Here,  as  I take  my  solitary  rounds, 

Amidst  thy  tangling  walks  and  ruined  grounds, 

And,  many  a year  elapsed,  return  to  view 
Where  once  the  cottage  stood,  the  hawthorn  grew, 
Remembrance  wakes,  with  all  her  busy  train, 

Swells  at  my  breast,  and  turns  the  past  to  pain. 

“ In  all  my  wanderings  round  this  world  of  care, 

In  all  my  griefs  — and  God  has  given  my  share  — 

I still  had  hopes  my  latest  hours  to  crown, 

Amidst  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me  down ; 

To  husband  out  life’s  taper  at  the  close, 

And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by  repose ; 

I still  had  hopes  — for  pride  attends  us  still  — 

Amidst  the  swains  to  show  my  book-learned  skill, 
Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to  draw, 

And  tell  of  all  I felt  and  all  I saw ; 

And,  as  a hare,  whom  hounds  and  horns  pursue, 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  he  flew  — 

I still  had  hopes  — my  long  vexations  past, 

Here  to  return,  and  die  at  home  at  last. 

“ O blest  retirement,  friend  to  life’s  decline ! 

Retreats  from  care  that  never  must  be  mine  — 

How  blest  is  he  who  crowns,  in  shades  like  these, 

A youth  of  labor  with  an  age  of  ease ; 

Who  quits  a world  where  strong  temptations  try, 
And,  since ’t  is  hard  to  combat,  learns  to  fly ! 

For  him  no  wretches  born  to  work  and  weep 
Explore  the  mine  or  tempt  the  dangerous  deep ; 

No  surly  porter  stands  in  guilty  state 
To  spurn  imploring  famine  from  the  gate : 

But  on  he  moves  to  meet  his  latter  end, 

Angels  around  befriending  virtue’s  friend ; 

Sinks  to  the  grave  with  unperceived  decay, 

Whilst  resignation  gently  slopes  the  way ; 

And  all  his  prospects  brightening  to  the  last, 

His  heaven  commences  ere  the  world  be  past.” 

In  these  verses,  I need  not  say  with  what 
melody,  with  what  touching  truth,  with  what 
exquisite  beauty  of  comparison  — as  indeed 
in  hundreds  more  pages  of  the  writings  of  this 
honest  soul  — the  whole  character  of  the  man 
is  told  — his  humble  confession  of  faults  and 
19 


290  ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 

weakness ; his  pleasant  little  vanity,  and  de* 
sire  that  his  village  should  admire  him  ; his 
simple  scheme  of  good  in  which  everybody 
was  to  be  happy,  — no  beggar  was  to  be 
refused  his  dinner,  nobody  in  fact  was  to 
work  much,  — and  he  to  be  the  harmless  chief 
of  the  Utopia,  and  the  monarch  of  the  Irish 
Yvetot.  He  would  have  told  again,  and  with- 
out fear  of  their  failing,  those  famous  jokes* 
which  had  hung  fire  in  London  ; he  would  have 
talked  of  his  great  friends  of  the  Club  — of 
my  Lord  Clare  and  my  Lord  Bishop,  my  Lord 
Nugent  — sure  he  knew  them  intimately,  and 
was  hand  and  glove  with  some  of  the  best  men 
in  town — -and  he  would  have  spoken  of  John- 


* “ Goldsmith’s  incessant  desire  of  being  conspicuous  in  com- 
pany was  the  occasion  of  his  sometimes  appearing  to  such  dis- 
advantage, as  one  should  hardly  have  supposed  possible  in  a 
man  of  his  genius.  When  his’ literary  reputation  had  risen  de-^ 
servedly  high,  and  his  society  was  much  courted,  he  became  very 
jealous  of  the  extraordinary  attention  which  was  every  where  paia 
to  Johnson.  One  evening,  in  a circle  of  wits,  he  found  fault  With 
me  for  talking  of  Johnson  as  entitled  to  the  honor  of  unquestion- 
able superiority.  ‘ Sir,’  said  he,  ‘ you  are  for  making  a monarchy 
of  what  should  be  a republic.’ 

“ He  was  still  more  mortified,  when , talking  in  a company  with 
fluent  vivacity,  and,  as  he  flattered  himself,  to  the  admiration  of 
all  present,  a German  who  sat  next  him,  and  perceived  Johnson 
rolling  himself  as  if  about  to  speak,  suddenly  stopped  him,  say- 
ing, ‘Stay,  stay  — Toctor  Shonson  is  going  to  zay  zomething.’’ 
This  was  no  doubt  very  provoking,  especially  to  one  so  irritable' 
as  Goldsmith,  who  frequently  mentioned  it  with  strong  express 
sions  of  indignation. 

“ It  may  also  be  observed  that  Goldsmith  was  sometimes  con- 
tent to  be  treated  with  an  easy  familiarity,  but  upon  occasions 
would  be  consequential  and  important.  An  instance  of  this  oc- 
curred in  a small  particular.  Johnson  had  a way  of  contracting 
the  names  of  his  friends,  as  Beauclerk,  Beau;  Boswell,  Bozzy, 
. . . I remember  one  day,  when  Tom  Davies  was  telling  that  Dr. 
Johnson  said,  ‘ We  are  all  in  labor  for  a name  to  Goldy's  play,* 
Goldsmith  seemed  displeased  that  such  a liberty  should  be  taken 
with  his  name,  and  said,  ‘ I have  often  desired  him  not  to  call  me 
Goldy .’  ” 

This  is  one  of  several  of  Boswell’s  depreciatory  mentions  of 


STERNE  AND  GOLDSMITH. 


291 


son  and  of  Burke,  and  of  Sir  Joshua  who  had 
painted  him  — and  he  would  have  told  won- 
derful sly  stories  of  Ranelagh  and  the  Pan- 
theon, and  the  masquerades  at  Madame  Cor- 
nelis’ ; and  he  would  have  toasted,  with  a sigh, 
the  Jessamy  Bride  — - the  lovely  Mary  Horneck. 

The  figure  of  that  charming  young  lady 
forms  one  of  the  prettiest  recollections  of 
Goldsmith’s  life.  She  and  her  beautiful  sis- 
ter, who  married  Bunbury,  the  graceful  and 
humorous  amateur  artist  of  those  days,  when 
Gilray  had  but  just  begun  to  try  his  powers, 
were  among  the  kindest  and  dearest  of  Gold- 
smith’s many  friends,  cheered  and  pitied  him, 
travelled  abroad  with  him,  made  him  welcome 
at  their  home,  and  gave  him  many  a pleasant 


Goldsmith — which  may  well  irritate  biographers  and  admirers 

— and  also  those  who  take  that  more  kindly  and  more  profound 
view  of  Boswell’s  own  character,  which  was  opened  up  by  Mr. 
Carlyle’s  famous  article  on  his  book.  No  wonder  that  Mr.  Irving 
calls  Boswell  an  “ incarnation  of  toadyism.”  And  the  worst  of 
it  is,  that  Johnson  himself  has  suffered  from  this  habit  of  the 
Laird  of  Auchinleck’s.  People  are  apt  to  forget  under  what 
Boswellian  stimulus  the  great  Doctor  uttered  many  hasty  things, 

— things  no  more  indicative  of  the  nature  of  the  depths  of  his 
character  than  the  phosphoric  gleaming  of  the  sea,  when  struck 
at  night,  is  indicative  of  radical  corruption  of  nature ! In  truth, 
it  is  clear  enough  on  the  whole  that  both  Johnson  and  Goldsmith 
appreciated  each  other,  and  that  they  mutually  knew  it.  They 
were,  as  it  were,  tripped  up  and  flung  against  each  other,  occa- 
sionally, by  the  blundering  and  silly  gambolling  of  people  in 
company. 

Something  must  be  allowed  for  Boswell’s  “ rivalry  for  John- 
son’s good  graces  ” with  Oliver  (as  Sir  Walter  Scott  has  remarked), 
for  Oliver  was  intimate  with  the  Doctor  before  his  biographer 
was,  and,  as  we  all  remember,  marched  off  with  him  to  “ take 
tea  with  Mrs.  Williams  ” before  Boswell  had  advanced  to  that 
honorable  degree  of  intimacy.  But,  in  truth,  Boswell  — though 
he  perhaps  showed  more  talent  in  his  delineation  of  the  Doctor 
than  is  generally  ascribed  to  him  — had  not  faculty  to  take  a fair 
view  of  two  great  men  at  a time.  Besides,  as  Mr.  Forster  justly 
remarks,  “ he  was  impatient  of  Goldsmith  from  the  first  hour  of 
their  acquaintance.”— Life  and  Adventurest  p.  292. 


292  ENGLISH  I1UM0BISTS. 

holiday.  He  bought  his  finest  clothes  to  figure 
at  their  country-house  at  Barton  — he  wrote 
them  droll  verses.  They  loved  him,  laughed 
at  him,  played  him  tricks  and  made  him  happy. 
He  asked  for  a loan  from  Garrick,  and  Garrick 
kindly  supplied  him,  to  enable  him  to  go  to 
Barton  : but  there  were  to  be  no  more  holi- 
days and  only  one  brief  struggle  more  for  poor 
Goldsmith.  A lock  of  his  hair  was  taken  from 
the  coffin  and  given  to  the  Jessamy  Bride. 
She  lived  quite  into  our  time.  Hazlitt  saw 
her  an  old  lady,  but  beautiful  still,  in  North- 
cote’s  painting-room,  who  told  the  eager  critic 
how  proud  she  always  was  that  Goldsmith  had 
admired  her.  The  younger  Colman  has  left 
a touching  reminiscence  of  him  (vol.  i.  63, 
64)  : — 

“ I was  only  five  years  old,”  he  says,  u when 
Goldsmith  took  me  on  his  knee  one  evening 
whilst  he  was  drinking  coffee  with  my  father, 
and  began  to  play  with  me,  which  amiable  act 
I returned,  with  the  ingratitude  of  a peevish 
brat,  by  giving  him  a very  smart  slap  on  the 
face : it  must  have  been  a tingler,  for  it  left 
the  marks  of  my  spiteful  paw  on  his  cheek. 
This  infantile  outrage  was  followed  by  sum- 
mary justice,  and  I was  locked  up  by  my  in- 
dignant father  in  an  adjoining  room  to  undergo 
solitary  imprisonment  in  the  dark.  Here  I 
began  to  howl  and  scream  most  abominably, 
which  was  no  bad  step  towards  my  liberation, 
since  those  who  were  not  inclined  to  pity  me 
might  be  likely  to  set  me  free  for  the  purpose 
of  abating  a nuisance. 


STERNE  AND  GOLDSMITH. 


293 


46  At  length  a generous  friend  appeared  to 
extricate  me  from  jeopardy,  and  that  generous 
friend  was  no  other  than  the  man  I had  so 
wantonly  molested  by  assault  and  battery  — 
it  was  the  tender-hearted  Doctor  himself,  with 
a lighted  candle  in  his  hand  and  a smile  upon 
his  countenance,  which  was  still  partially  red 
from  the  effects  of  my  petulance.  I sulked 
and  sobbed  as  he  fondled  and  soothed,  till  I 
began  to  brighten.  Goldsmith  seized  the  pro- 
pitious moment  of  returning  good-humor,  when 
he  put  down  the  candle  and  began  to  conjure. 
He  placed  three  hats,  which  happened  to  be 
in  the  room,  and  a shilling  under  each.  The 
shillings  he  told  me  were  England,  France, 
and  Spain.  6 Hey  presto  cockalorum  ! 9 cried 
the  Doctor,  and  lo,  on  uncovering  the  shillings, 
which  had  been  dispersed  each  beneath  a sep- 
arate hat,  they  were  all  found  congregated 
under  one.  I was  no  politician  at  five  years 
old,  and  therefore  might  not  have  wondered 
at  the  sudden  revolution  which  brought  Eng- 
land, France,  and  Spain  all  under  one  crown  ; 
but  as  also  I was  no  conjurer,  it  amazed  me 
beyond  measure.  . . . From  that  time,  when- 
ever the  Doctor  came  to  visit  my  father,  4 I 
plucked  his  gown  to  share  the  good  man’s 
smile’ ; a game  at  romps  constantly  ensued, 
and  we  were  always  cordial  friends  and 
merry  playfellows.  Our  unequal  companion- 
ship varied  somewhat  as  to  sports  as  I grew 
older ; but  it  did  not  last  long : my  senior 
playmate  died  in  his  forty-fifth  year,  when 
I had  attained  my  eleventh.  ...  In  all  the 


294 


ENGLISH  IIUMOBISTS. 


numerous  accounts  of  his  virtues  and  foibles, 
his  genius  and  absurdities,  his  knowledge 
of  nature  and  ignorance  of  the  world,  his 
‘ compassion  for  another’s  woe 5 was  always 
predominant ; and  my  trivial  story  of  his 
humoring  a froward  child  weighs  but  as  a 
feather  in  the  recorded  scale  of  his  benevo- 
lence.” 

Think  of  him  reckless,  thriftless,  vain  if 
you  like,  but  merciful,  gentle,  generous,  full 
of  love  and  pity.  He  passes  out  of  our  life, 
and  goes  to  render  his  account  beyond  it. 
Think  of  the  poor  pensioners  weeping  at  his 
grave  ; think  of  the  noble  spirits  that  admired 
and  deplored  him  ; think  of  the  righteous  pen 
that  wrote  his  epitaph  — and  of  the  wonderful 
and  unanimous  response  of  affection  with  which 
the  world  has  paid  back  the  love  he  gave  it. 
His  humor  delighting  us  still : his  song  fresh 
and  beautiful  as  when  first  he  charmed  with 
it : his  words  in  all  our  mouths : his  very 
weaknesses  beloved  and  familiar  — his  benev- 
olent spirit  seems  still  to  smile  upon  us  ; to  do 
gentle  kindnesses  : to  succor  with  sweet  char- 
ity : to  soothe,  caress,  and  forgive : to  plead 
with  the  fortunate  for  the  unhappy  and  the 
poor. 

His  name  is  the  last  in  the  list  of  those  men 
of  humor  who  have  formed  the  themes  of  the 
discourses  which  you  have  heard  so  kindly. 

Long  before  I had  ever  hoped  for  such  an 
audience,  or  dreamed  of  the  possibility  of  the 
good  fortune  which  has  brought  me  so  many 


S TEBNE  AND  GOLDSMITH. 


295 


friends,  I was  at  issue  with  some  of  my  liter- 
ary brethren  upon  a point  — which  they  held 
from  tradition  I think  rather  than  experience 
— that  onr  profession  was  neglected  in  this 
country ; and  that  men  of  letters  were  ill- 
received  and  held  in  slight  esteem.  It  would 
hardly  be  grateful  of  me  now  to  alter  my  old 
opinion  that  we  do  meet  with  good-will  and 
kindness,  with  generous  helping  hands  in  the 
time  of  our  necessity,  with  cordial  and  friendly 
recognition.  What  claim  had  any  one  of  these 
of  whom  I have  been  speaking,  but  genius? 
What  return  of  gratitude,  fame,  affection,  did 
it  not  bring  to  all  ? 

What  punishment  befell  those  who  were 
unfortunate  among  them,  but  that  which  fol- 
lows reckless  habits  and  careless  lives  ? For 
these  faults  a wit  must  suffer  like  the  dullest 
prodigal  that  ever  ran  in  debt.  He  must  pay 
the  tailor  if  he  wears  the  coat ; his  children 
must  go  in  rags  if  he  spends  his  money  at  the 
tavern  ; he  can’t  come  to  London  and  be  made 
Lord  Chancellor  if  he  stops  on  the  road  and 
gambles  away  his  last  shilling  at  Dublin.  And 
he  must  pay  the  social  penalty  of  these  follies 
too,  and  expect  that  the  world  will  shun  the 
man  of  bad  habits,  that  women  will  avoid  the 
man  of  loose  life,  that  prudent  folks  will  close 
their  doors  as  a precaution,  and  before  a 
demand  should  be  made  on  their  pockets  by 
the  needy  prodigal.  With  what  difficulty  had 
any  one  of  these  men  to  contend,  save  that 
eternal  and  mechanical  one  of  want  of  means 
and  lack  of  capital,  and  of  which  thousands  of 


296 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS, 


young  law}Ters,  young  doctors,  young  soldiers 
and  sailors,  of  inventors,  manufacturers,  shop- 
keepers, have  to  complain?  Hearts  as  brave 
and  resolute  as  ever  beat  in  the  breast  of  any 
wit  or  poet,  sicken  and  break  daily  in  the  vain 
endeavor  and  unavailing  struggle  against  life’s 
difficulty.  Don’t  we  see  daily  ruined  invent- 
ors, gray-haired  midshipmen,  balked  heroes, 
blighted  curates,  barristers  pining  a hungry 
life  out  in  chambers,  the  attorneys  never 
mounting  to  their  garrets,  whilst  scores  of 
them  are  rapping  at  the  door  of  the  success- 
ful quack  below?  If  these  suffer,  who  is 
the  author,  that  he  should  be  exempt?  Let 
us  bear  our  ills  with  the  same  constancy  with 
which  others  endure  them,  accept  our  manly 
part  in  life,  hold  our  own,  and  ask  no  more. 
I can  conceive  of  no  kings  or  laws  causing  or 
curing  Goldsmith’s  improvidence,  or  Fielding’s 
fatal  love  of  pleasure,  or  Dick  Steele’s  mania 
for  running  races  with  the  constable.  You 
never  can  outrun  that  sure-footed  officer — - 
not  by  any  swiftness  or  by  dodges  devised  by 
any  genius,  however  great ; and  he  carries  off 
the  Tatler  to  the  spunging-house,  or  taps  the 
Citizen  of  the  World  on  the  shoulder  as  he 
would  any  other  mortal. 

Does  society  look  down  on  a man  because 
he  is  an  author?  I suppose  if  people  want  a 
buffoon  they  tolerate  him  only  in  so  far  as  he 
is  amusing ; it  can  hardly  be  expected  that 
they  should  respect  him  as  an  equal.  Is  there 
to  be  a guard  of  honor  provided  for  the  author 
of  the  last  new  novel  or  poem  ? how  long  is  he 


STERNE  AND  GOLDSMITH. 


297 


to  reign,  and  keep  other  potentates  out  of 
possession?  He  retires,  grumbles,  and  prints 
a lamentation  that  literature  is  despised.  If 
Captain  A.  is  left  out  of  Lady  B.’s  parties,  he 
does  not  state  that  the  army  is  despised : if 
Lord  C.  no  longer  asks  Counsellor  D.  to  din- 
ner, Counsellor  D.  does  not  announce  that  the 
bar  is  insulted.  He  is  not  fair  to  society  if 
he  enters  it  with  this  suspicion  hankering 
about  him  ; if  he  is  doubtful  about  his  recep- 
tion, how  hold  up  his  head  honestly,  and  look 
frankly  in  the  face  that  world  about  which  he 
is  full  of  suspicion?  Is  he  place-hunting,  and 
thinking  in  his  mind  that  he  ought  to  be  made 
an  Ambassador,  like  Prior,  or  a Secretary  of 
State,  like  Addison?  his  pretence  of  equality 
falls  to  the  ground  at  once  : he  is  scheming 
for  a patron,  not  shaking  the  hand  of  a friend, 
when  he  meets  the  world.  Treat  such  a man 
as  he  deserves  ; laugh  at  his  buffoonery,  and 
give  him  a dinner  and  a bon  jour ; laugh  at 
his  self-sufficiency  and  absurd  assumptions  of 
superiority,  and  his  equally  ludicrous  airs  of 
martyrdom  ; laugh  at  his  flattery  and  his  schem- 
ing, and  buy  it,  if  it’s  worth  the  having.  Let 
the  wag  have  his  dinner  and  the  hireling  his 
pay,  if  you  want  him,  and  make  a profound 
bow  to  the  grand  homme  incompris , and  the 
boisterous  martyr,  and  show  him  the  door. 
The  great  world,  the  great  aggregate  experi- 
ence, has  its  good  sense,  as  it  has  its  good- 
humor.  It  detects  a pretender,  as  it  trusts  a 
loyal  heart.  It  is  kind  in  the  main : how 
should  it  be  otherwise  than  kind,  when  it  is  sq 


298 


ENGLISH  HUMORISTS. 


wise  and  clear-headed  ? To  any  literary  man 
who  says,  “ It  despises  my  profession,”  I say, 
with  all  my  might,  no,  no,  no.  It  may  pass 
over  your  individual  case  — how  many  a brave 
fellow  has  failed  in  the  race  and  perished  un- 
known in  the  struggle  ! — but  it  treats  you  as 
you  merit  in  the  main.  If  you  serve  it,  it  is 
not  unthankful ; if  you  please  it,  it  is  pleased  ; 
if  you  cringe  to  it,  it  detects  you,  and  scorns 
you  if  you  are  mean  ; it  returns  your  cheerful- 
ness with  its  good-humor  ; it  deals  not  ungen- 
erously with  your  weaknesses ; it  recognizes 
most  kindly  your  merits ; it  gives  you  a fair 
place  and  fair  play.  To  any  one  of  those  men 
of  whom  we  have  spoken  was  it  in  the  main 
ungrateful?  A king  might  refuse  Goldsmith 
a pension,  as  a publisher  might  keep  his  mas- 
terpiece and  the  delight  of  all  the  world  in  his 
desk  for  two  years;  but  it  was  mistake,  and 
not  ill-will.  Noble  and  illustrious  names  of 
Swift,  and  Pope,  and  Addison ! dear  and 
honored  memories  of  Goldsmith  and  Fielding  ! 
kind  friends,  teachers,  benefactors  ! who  shall 
say  that  our  country,  which  continues  to  bring 
you  such  an  unceasing  tribute  of  applause, 
admiration,  love,  sympathy,  does  not  do  honor 
to  the  literary  calling  in  the  honor  which  it 
bestows  upon  you  ? 


THE  END. 


v 


/ 


BOSTON  COLLEGE 


3 9031  01287747  8 


FR  THACKERAY. 

935 

.T42 


Bapst  Library 

Boston  College 

Chestnut  Hill  67,  Mass. 


